NEW  WINE 


By  Agnes  &  Egerton  Castle 

New  Wine 

Minniglen 

Wolf-Lure 

Rose  of  the  World 

The  Secret  Orchard 

If  Youth  But  Knew 

\Vroth 

The  Star  Dreamer 

Panther's  Cub 

Diamond  Cut  Paste 

The  Pride  of  Jennico 

My  Merry  Rockhurst 

The  Composer 

Flower  of  the  Orange 

•  Comedy 

Incomparable  Bellairs 
The  Heart  of  Lady  Anne 
The  Lure  of  Life 
The  Haunted  Heart 
Our  Sentimental  Garden 
The  Hope  of  the  House 
Wind's  Will 


By  Egerton  Castle 

Young  April 

The  Light  of  Scarthey 

Consequences 

Marshfield  the  Observer 

The  House  of  Romance 

Schools  and  Masters  of  Fence 

English  Book-Plates 

The  Jerningham  Letters 

Le  Roman  du  Prince  Othon 

I9SD  " 


NEW  WINE 

BY 

AGNES  AND  EGERTON  CASTLE 

AUTHORS  OP 

"MINHIOLBN,"  "THE  PRIDE  OF  JENNICO," 
"THE  HAUNTED  EEABT,"  ETC. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  1919 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BT 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1919,  by 

AGNES   AND   EGEBTON   CASTLE 


PRINTED   IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


Stack 
Annex 


Neither  do  men  put  new  wine  into  old  bottlts; 
else  the  bottles  break  and  the  wine  runneth  out, 
and  the  bottles  perish. — ST.  MATTHEW. 


2228461 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

I.    KILMORE  HOUSE,  MATFAIB 3 

II.    A  FIRESIDE  IN  CLENANE 10 

III.  SHANE  O'CoNOR 19 

IV.  MOIRA 33 

V.    APRIL  TO  APRIL 41 

VI.    POINTS  OF  VIEW 52 

VII.    THE  ENVOY 65 

VIII.    THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 85 

IX.    THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 107 

X.    THE  DEATH-BED 121 

BOOK  II 

I.  THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 129 

II.    SMOKE  OF  THE  PAST 143 

III.  THE  HOUSE  PARTY 152 

IV.  THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 162 

V.    "QUEER  SAYINGS" 187 

VI.    THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 199 

VII.    THE  WHITE  SHRINE 812 

VIII.    THE  ARIADNE £31 

IX.    HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES £43 

X.     "HAVE  You  No  DUTIES?" £53 

BOOK  III 

I.     "STARS"  AND  "PADDY" £73 

II.  "MoRiTURi  TE  SALUTANT" 292 

III.  VENETIA  HOSPITAL £98 

IV.  HOME-COMING 811 

V.    THE  WATCHER  BY  THE  HEARTH 328 

VI.    OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS 337 


BOOK  I 


growing  son:  a  growing  son  and 
comely  to  behold." — GENESIS 


NEW  WINE 


KILMORE  HOUSE,  MAYFAIB 

LORD  KILMORE  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  nut- 
crackers and  deliberately  split  his  walnut  before  replying. 

The  port  wine  glass  stood  at  his  elbow,  the  decanter  in 
front  of  him — both  of  heavy  old-fashioned  cut  glass. 
Port  was  the  only  wine  he  cared  for.  Yet  he  did  not  look 
like  a  man  nourished  on  port  wine:  his  thin,  chiseled  face 
was  of  the  color  of  old  ivory.  Though  he  never  spoke  of 
his  health  and  was  as  active  as  most  men,  there  was  a 
stamp  as  of  some  unadmitted  illness  upon  him;  his  ges- 
tures had  an  unconscious  languor;  the  thick  black  hair 
was  silvered — prematurely,  since  he  was,  as  Debrett 
would  tell  you,  scarcely  over  fifty.  His  eyes  were  blue: 
cold  and  brilliant  eyes,  that  spoke  of  restless  energies, 
tormented  desires,  never  fulfilled. 

The  contrast  between  the  driving  force  of  the  spirit, 
expressed  by  his  glance  and  speech,  and  the  weariness  of 
all  his  movements,  made  a  curious  impression — an  un- 
pleasant one.  But  then  he  was  not  a  pleasant  man.  It 
was  doubtful  if  any  one  had  love  for  him,  even  those  two 
motherless  sons  to  whom  he  was,  paradox  of  his  nature, 
at  once  the  most  indulgent  and  the  most  arbitrary  of 
parents. 


NEW  WINE 

To-night,  in  the  pillared  dining-room  of  Kilmore 
House,  standing  between  park  and  street  in  proud  seclu- 
sion, he  was  entertaining  three  contemporaries  to  dinner: 
the  only  kind  of  party  he  ever  gave,  the  choice  repast  to 
a  chosen  few.  He  had  been  at  Eton  with  Blantyre,  at 
Oxford  with  Darcy ;  Lord  Edward  Vemey  was  his  broth- 
er-in-law. Why  they  came  to  dine  with  him  it  might  have 
been  difficult  for  them  to  explain ;  for  the  excellence  of  the 
fare  provided  by  the  chef  could  hardly  have  compensated 
for  the  gloom  diffused  by  the  host. 

Darcy,  charming,  cheery  old  beau  as  he  was,  would 
come  to  the  board  breathing  good  fellowship,  genially 
content  with  himself  and  the  world,  and  quite  ready  to 
wax  a  little  sentimental  after  the  first  glass  of  champagne 
over  the  memory  of  old  days.  But  laughter  and  speech 
would  be  gradually  frozen  on  his  lips,  and  by  the  time  the 
servants  had  withdrawn,  he  would  have  lapsed  into  gloomy 
silence,  almost  if  not  quite  ready  to  believe  that  England 
was  going  to  the  dogs,  and  that  they  would  yet  live  to  see 
all  they  held  dear  trampled  under  foot  by  a  legalized  mob. 
As  for  Lord  Edward,  his  amiable  habit  of  goading  his 
brother-in-law  to  acrid  bursts  of  temper,  did  not  add  to 
the  comfort  of  the  other  guests.  It  was  fortunate  that 
Sir  James  Blantyre  should  belong  to  the  type  of  amiable 
cynic  who  invariably  selects  the  line  of  least  resistance  in 
social  intercourse. 

When  Lord  Kilmore  had  cracked  his  walnut,  he  looked 
across  at  his  brother-in-law,  and  said  slowly : — 

"If  that's  your  opinion,  it's  not  mine.  Give  them  ten 
years'  martial  law,  and  you'll  hear  no  more  about  Home 
Rule." 

Colonel  Darcy  roused  himself  with  a  little  start  from  a 

4 


KILMORE  HOUSE,  MAYFAIR 

creeping  somnolency.  "Gad,"  he  was  wont  to  say,  "I  am 
an  abstemious  man,  but  I've  got  to  take  a  glass  too  much 
at  Kilmore's  to  keep  the  dashed  chill  off.  Of  course,"  he 
cried,  in  his  jovial  voice,  "you've  got  a  lot  of  property 
over  there,  haven't  you,  Kil?  It's  hard  lines  on  the  Irish 
landowner,  I  must  say.  But  we  are  pretty  badly  hit  over 
here  too,  what?" 

"Monstrous,"  agreed  Blantyre,  filling  his  glass. 

Lord  Kilmore's  shaven  lip  curled  with  an  intensification 
of  the  irony  peculiar  to  it. 

"My  dear  fellow !  If  my  father  hadn't  got  rid  of  every 
inch  of  the  wretched  soil  we  once  owned  in  Clare,  I'd  have 
done  it  myself — at  any  cost.  Wise  man,  my  father." 

"To  be  sure,"  Lord  Edward  laughed  tauntingly.  "He 
got  rid  of  other  things  too.  The  last  Papist  of  the  race." 

"The  first  rational  man  of  the  race,"  said  Lord  Kil- 
more,  with  an  icy  glint  of  the  blue  eyes. 

"Sensible  fellow.     Sensible  man,"  echoed  Blantyre. 

"If  there  are  three  things  I  hate  in  this  world,"  went 
on  the  host — he  was  peeling  the  half  of  his  walnut  with 
slow,  bloodless  fingers — "they  are:  a  Papist,  an  Irishman, 
and  the  meddling  fool  of  an  Englishman  who  sets  out  to 
dry-nurse  disloyalty." 

The  fixity  of  his  glance  seemed  to  include  his  brother- 
in-law  in  this  last  category,  and  Lord  Edward  was  quite 
ready  to  give  tap  for  rap. 

"Pity,"  he  smiled,  "you  can't  prevent  my  nephews  be- 
ing called  O'Conor,  then.  It  sounds  rather  Irish,  and — er 
— just  a  little  bit  papistical." 

Lord  Kilmore  bared  his  teeth  at  his  relative,  and  Col- 
onel Darcy  hastily  intervened: — 

"And  where  are  my  young  friends,  this  moment,  Kil- 

5 


NEW  WINE 

more?  I  rather  hoped  I  might  have  met  one  at  least  to- 
night." 

Lord  Kilmore's  face  did  not  light  up.  On  the  con- 
trary, across  its  brooding  pallor  there  seemed  to  come  a 
perceptible  shadow. 

"They're  half-way  across  America.  Anywhere  this 
moment  between  Chicago  and  San  Francisco." 

"Both?" 

"Both." 

"Capital  thing  to  send  young  men  to  see  the  world 
early,"  said  Sir  James,  raising  inquiring  eyes  over  the 
lighting  of  his  cigarette. 

Lord  Edward's  mocking  voice  intervened. 

"Surely,  Darcy,  you  saw  an  announcement  in  the  pa- 
pers a  little  while  ago." 

"Bless  my  soul!"  the  Colonel  sat  up,  tugged  at  his 
waistcoat,  and  looked  distressedly  from  one  to  the  other. 
"Nothing — er — I  trust,  my  dear  Kil?  Well,  'pon  honor, 
you  know,  it's  the  fashionable  thing  nowadays — eh,  what? 
Marry  an  actress !  They  all  do.  The  prettiest  little 
woman  I've  seen  for  a  long  time,  and  the  most  charming, 
too — 'pon  honor,  perfect  little  creature — is  the  new  Lady 
Thurso.  Came  straight  off  the  boards,  my  dear  fellow !" 

"After  all,  there's  precious  little  difference,  nowa- 
days," agreed  the  smoker  between  two  puffs. 

"But,"  Lord  Edward  explained,  keeping  a  malicious 
eye  upon  his  host,  "haven't  you  heard?  The  delinquent 
has  been  shipped  for  a  journey  round  the  world,  with  Guy 
to  do  watch-dog.  Clever  lad,  Guy,  knows  which  side  his 
bread  is  buttered.  My  dear  William,"  here  he  addressed 
his  brother-in-law,  "do  you  intend  that  Harold  should 
pick  up  a  pretty  American  instead?  And  what  will  you 

6 


KILMORE  HOUSE,  MAYFA1R 

do  when  Miss  Ruby  Mordaunt  brings  an  action  ?  It  went 
rather  far,  didn't  it?" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  Edward,  I  appreciate  your 
anxiety.  I  do  not,  however,  anticipate  any  further 
trouble  from  Miss  Mordaunt." 

"Quite  right.  Quite  right."  It  didn't  matter  with 
whom  Sir  James  happened  to  concur;  and,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  did  not  care. 

"Ugh,"  thought  the  warm-blooded  Guardsman,  with 
a  shiver.  "If  Kilmore  had  dug  a  grave  for  the  girl  and 
buried  her  in  it,  he  couldn't  look  much  more  macabre. 
What  the  devil  did  I  come  here  for?"  He  glanced  at  his 
watch,  and  gave  a  well-simulated  ejaculation  of  surprise: 
"Half-past  ten !  Bless  my  soul,  I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  late. 
I  must  be  off.  I've  got  to  trot  the  Missis  and  the  little 
girls  round  to  the  Granthams'  dance.  Awfully  sorry, 
Kil,  break  up  pleasant  party.  But  duty,  eh  what,  duty." 

Sir  James  and  Edward  Verney  interchanged  a  look ; 
then  the  latter  said : — 

"And  we're  due  at  the  club.  Dreadful  thing  this 
bridge,  isn't  it,  William?"  He  laughed.  It's  always 
well  to  be  civil  to  your  entertainer  at  parting,  even  to  a 
brother-in-law  whom  you  detest. 

Sir  James  Blantyre  looked  rather  regretfully  at  his  half 
glass  of  incomparable  port,  then  swallowed  it  at  a  gulp — 
not  the  fashion  in  which  he  liked  to  discuss  good  wine. 
Nevertheless  it  was  perfectly  true  that  he  and  Verney  had 
made  an  appointment  for  bridge.  It  was  useful  to  make 
an  appointment  before  going  out  to  dine  with  Kilmore, 
if  you  were  a  truthful  person. 

So  the  good-bys  were  said.  Lord  Kilmore  displayed 
no  anxiety  to  retain  his  guests.  Pie  gave  each  a  hand, 

7 


NEW  WINE 

to  touch  or  shake,  as  they  chose,  and  stood  in  the  arch- 
way of  the  dining-room  door  just  the  necessary  second 
to  see  that  his  servants  were  duly  in  attendance.  Then 
he  went  back  to  his  wine. 

A  footman  crept  in,  made  up  the  fire;  the  cat- footed 
butler  followed,  drew  an  arm-chair  to  the  proper  angle 
by  the  hearth;  set  at  its  elbow  a  small  table  with  a  new 
decanter  of  port  and  a  fresh  glass,  and  withdrew. 

Lord  Kilmore  sauntered  round  and  let  himself  drop 
upon  the  well-cushioned  morocco.  He  stretched  his  long 
legs  towards  the  blaze,  and,  as  he  gave  himself  to  musing, 
the  sour  lines  about  his  handsome  mouth  took  deeper  in- 
dentations. The  evening — like  all  those  other  evenings 
that  went  before — had  been  dreary  and  profitless  to  him. 
It  had  indeed  been  worse  than  its  predecessors,  in  so  far 
as  it  had  left  a  distinctly  disagreeable  impression.  "Ed- 
ward was  a  blanked  unpleasant  fellow.  Why  the  devil 
did  he  ever  ask  him  ?  .  .  .  Jim  Blantyre  was  a  fool.  And 
poor  old  Darcy  merely  an  ass." 

He  sipped  his  port,  gazed  at  the  fire-glow  through  it 
in  a  half  mechanical  way,  and  sipped  again.  His  doctor 
had  forbidden  this.  .  .  .  He  was  an  ass  too — it  was  the 
only  thing  that  kept  him  alive.  .  .  .  Confound  Edward, 
that  he  must  stir  up  that  hornet's  nest  about  his  ears 
again!  The  thing  was  over  and  done  with,  thanks  to 
swift  and  strong  action.  .  .  .  Well,  Harold  would  thank 
him  for  it,  one  day.  .  .  .  He  recalled  the  young,  angry 
face  as  he  had  last  seen  it;  the  gesture  with  which  his  son 
and  heir  had  refused  to  shake  hands.  .  .  .  Harold  would 
understand  and  thank  him  one  day — one  day.  Yes,  it 
was  a  good  thing  for  a  father  to  keep  a  tight  hold  of  the 
supplies.  And  Miss  Ruby  Mordaunt  was  a  wise  young 

8 


KILMORE  HOUSE,  MAYFAIR 

woman — she  knew  that  a  round  sum  in  the  hand  was  bet- 
ter than  a  penniless  eligible  in  the  bush.  "She  probably 
thinks  to  get  both,"  thought  the  father.  He  had  no  il- 
lusions ;  but  his  cynicism  had  a  double  edge :  calf  love,  as 
a  rule,  does  not  outlive  a  journey  round  the  world.  The 
first  pretty  American — he  paused  and  frowned;  then  his 
brows  relaxed:  Guy  would  keep  a  sharp  lookout. — What 
was  it  that  offensive  Verney  had  said?  "Clever  lad,  Guy, 
knows  which  side  his  bread  is  buttered."  Why  shouldn't 
he?  Guy  was  no  idiot.  .  .  .  He  was  glad  of  that.  Yet 
there  was  something  a  little  cold-blooded  in  Guy's  atti- 
tude towards  his  brother.  The  devil  was  in  it  that  he 
never  knew  what  Guy  was  thinking  of.  Harold,  now, 
you  could  read  him  like  an  open  book.  Pity  Guy  was  not 
the  elder — Ah,  no  ! 

The  father's  slow-beating  heart  tightened.  If  there 
was  a  creature  he  loved,  it  was  his  first-born.  .  .  .  Where 
were  the  boys  now?  he  wondered.  What  a  cursed  empty 
place  the  house  was,  these  days !  How  silent,  yet  how  full 
of  echoes! 


II 


A    FIRESIDE    IN    CLENANE 

"MisTHEB,  SHANE  was  a  great  boy" — this  was  '  the 
unanimous  verdict  of  the  youth  of  the  district.  "Sure 
any  one  could  tell,  by  the  look  of  him,  it  was  the  rale 
ould  blood  that  was  in  him.  And  him  with  the  spring 
of  a  Corrib  salmon  in  his  backbone!  Troth  he'll  lep' 
through  life ;  and  it'll  be  the  bold  fellow  that  'ud  try  the 
gaffing  of  him " 

But  Father  Blake,  the  old  priest  of  Clenane,  was  of 
a  different  opinion.  "It  'ud  break  anybody's  heart,"  he 
declared  to  his  crony,  the  doctor,  "to  see  that  fine  young 
man  going  to  waste  the  way  he  is !  Him  that  ought  to 
be  the  top  of  everything — taking  his  degree  at  the  Uni- 
versity. Not  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  mind  you,  but 
Trinity  College,  Cambridge — and  hand  in  glove  with  the 
best  in  the  land,  not  running  about  with  the  poor,  low, 
common  fellows  here — no  better  than  one  of  themselves 
for  all  my  trouble  with  him !" 

The  doctor  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  to  deliver 
himself  of  a  philosophic: 

"Musha!    What's  the  good  of  going  on  that  way?" 

The  cronies  were  sitting  together  in  the  little  turf- 
scented  parlor  of  the  presbytery.  "His  Reverence,"  in 
the  horse-hair  armchair,  clad  in  a  homespun  dressing- 
gown,  one  bandaged  foot  in  a  list  slipper  resting  on  a 

10 


A  FIRESIDE  IN  CLENANE 

stool,  was  evidently  suffering  from  a  complaint  that  need 
inspire  little  anxiety.  And  the  doctor,  thorough  old  gos- 
sip that  he  was,  was  enjoying  the  hour,  his  strong  to- 
bacco, and  his  friend's  company,  with  a  placid  diregard 
of  the  fact  that  it  was  filched  from  the  middle  of  his  round. 

The  priest,  on  the  other  hand,  was  in  an  unwonted 
mood  of  depression.  The  gout  is  by  no  means  as  cheerful 
a  companion  as  the  pipe.  Fixing  the  doctor  with  a  dis- 
consolate gaze,  knotting  his  forehead  into  innumerable 
wrinkles,  and  rubbing  his  rough  white  hair  into  bristling 
disarray,  he  presented  such  a  picture  of  distress  that  the 
smoker  dropped  his  bantering  tone  and  continued  with 
teudden  earnestness : 

"We  did  what  we  could  for  him.  You  learned  him  the 
Latin,  and " 

"Latin — !"  Father  Blake  interrupted  with  a  groan. 
"There  isn't  a  little  gossoon,  backwards  and  forwards 
at  the  school  beyant,  that  doesn't  know  as  much." 

"Well,  you  taught  him  what  you  could.  Let  us  leave 
it  at  that;  and  be  jabers,  I  think  we've  done  uncommonly 
well  with  him!  He's  as  fine  a  lad  as  any  of  the  young 
fellows  that  do  be  prancing  and  bowing  up  at  Dublin 
Castle  in  his  Excellency's  train.  A  deal  finer !  Will  any 
of  them  better  him  in  the  saddle,  or  with  a  gun  across  the 
bogs?  They  will  not.  Not  one  of  them.  And  you  know 
that  yourself,  for  all  the  way  you  sit  there  shaking  your 
old  head  at  me." 

The  doctor  here  reinserted  his  pipe  between  his  lips,  to 
blow  forth  a  rank  and  contemptuous  puff;  and,  leaving 
that  implement  of  solace  hanging  between  his  clenched 
teeth,  proceeded — in  impeded  tones,  but  with  no  less  en- 
ergy :— 

11 


NEW  WINE 

"The  Blake  boy  taught  him  the  fishing.  I  showed  him 
how  to  hold  a  gun,  and  I  sat  him  on  a  horse " 

The  priest  interrupted. 

"And  indeed  I  do  be  thinking  many  a  time  that  was 
the  worst  kindness  any  one  did  for  him.  It's  the  queer 
wild  lot  he's  getting  mixed  up  with." 

"Pshaw,  what  ails  you  at  all?  The  lad  can  hold  his 
own,  and  make  a  bit  o'  money,  and  he  never  a  ha'porth 
the  worse.  As  for  Latin — that  for  your  Latin!  All 
the  use  Latin  is  to  a  boy  is  to  forget  it.  I'll  be  bound  he 
knows  as  much  as  any  of  the  fine  specimens  I  have  the 
doctoring  of  now  and  again." 

But  the  old  priest's  face  did  not  light  up.  These  oft- 
repeated  arguments  carried  no  conviction. 

"It's  not  the  Latin  alone,"  he  said.  "I  dare  say  you're 
in  the  right  of  it,  doctor.  Lord  Charles,  or  the  young 
Kinvara  Blakes,  or  Joyce  of  Dromore,  or  the  Captain  him- 
self, may  know  as  much  or  as  little  as  my  poor  Shane. 
But  for  all  that,  they've  got  something  he  has  not,  some- 
thing I'm  afraid  he'll  never  have  now." 

"And  what's  that?" 

Dr.  Molloy  flung  a  tremendous  emphasis  on  the  usually 
mute  consonant  to  express  the  scorn  in  which  he  held  the 
anticipated  paltriness  of  the  reply. 

"Polish,"  said  Father  Blake  weightily.  He  clapped  his 
knees  with  both  knotty  hands  as  he  spoke,  lifted  his  lumi- 
nous pale  blue  eyes,  under  their  bushy  eyebrows,  and  fixed 
them  with  some  sternness  upon  his  companion's  good-na- 
tured, rubicund  visage  that  had  broken  into  a  derisive 
grin. 

"Polish,  is  it?"  The  man  of  medicine  had  once  more 

12 


A  FIRESIDE  IN  CLENANE 

removed  his  pipe,  and  it  was  in  a  high  key  that  he  gave 
vent  to  his  feelings. 

"Polish,'*  repeated  the  churchman,  with  even  more  em- 
phasis than  before.  "Aye,  I  know  all  you  would  say, 
Molloy,  my  dear  friend.  It's  a  good  lad,  a  fine  strapping 
lad,  and  a  handsome  lad;  and  he's  got  the  look  of  the 
race  about  him,  with  his  black  hair  and  his  blue  eyes  and 
his  clean  long  limbs.  Aye,  he  is  the  real  O'Conor,  as  like 
his  grandfather  whom  I  used  to  see  riding  through  the 
place  when  I  was  the  poor  little  spalpeen  and  would  run 
barefoot  out  of  my  mother's  cottage — the  Lord  have 
mercy  on  her,  the  decent  woman! — just  to  see  him  go  by. 
Ay !  Shane's  as  like  what  his  late  lordship — may  God  for- 
give him  for  his  dreadful  sin! — as  one  fine  young  oak  is 
like  another." 

"Well,  now,"  interrupted  the  listener,  "isn't  that  what 
I'm  saying?" 

Father  Blake  had  a  faint  smile. 

"You  think  yourself  too  cute  for  my  old  brains.  But 
I've  not  lost  hold  of  my  text.  I'm  too  well  trained  in  the 
holding  out.  There's  all  the  difference  the  tree  that's 
grown  up  tended  in  the  great  park,  set  alone,  so  that  it 
may  spread,  and  fenced  off  from  the  cattle  while  its  bark 
is  young  and  tender  and  the  same  tree  growing  wild,  and 
thwarted,  and  smothered  about  with  the  common  rough 
undergrowth." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say — "  Doctor  Molloy  was  now  grin- 
ning no  more — "do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  repeated,  and 
his  voice  had  a  quaver  of  indignation,  "that  in  your  opin- 
ion young  Shane  O'Conor  has  not  grown  into  a  gentle- 
man?" 

13 


NEW  WINE 

The  priest  hesitated  perceptibly.  Then  he  lifted  his 
hand  to  check  the  threatened  explosion. 

"In  all  that  matters :  in  every  thought  of  his  innocent 
soul  and  every  noble  impulse  of  his  character,  my  boy  is 
the  best  gentleman  that  ever  drew  breath.  But,  wait  a 
minute,  wait  a  minute.  In  the  other  things — 

The  doctor  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  shout. 

"The  things  that  don't  matter.  I've  caught  you  out 
now,  for  all  your  pulpit  eloquence." 

"The  things  that  do  matter !  that  must  matter,  so  long 
as  we  are  set  in  an  ordered  world,  and  every  man  has  to 

fill  his  position  in  life  as  best  becomes  it  and  him '" 

The  speaker  was  so  much  in  earnest  that  the  other's  ironic 
laughter  ceased.  "Shane,"  he  went  on,  "lacks  the  polish 
of  the  mind  that  comes  from  proper  scholarship.  Ay,  ay, 
even  if  learning's  forgotten,  it  leaves  a  shine,  so  to  speak. 
And  he  lacks  the  polish  that  a  lad  gains  by  association  with 
his  own  class.  Oh!  I  know  I'm  only  a  poor  old  P.P.  who's 
sprung  out  of  the  soil,  but  I'm  as  good  a  judge  of  the 
gentry  as  yourself  that  has  been  plastering  them  and  dos- 
ing them  for  thirty  years.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do, 
Molloy,  my  boy,  the  kind  of  manner  that  is  not  manner 
at  all,  but  just  second  nature.  The  way  of  lifting  your 
hat,  of  coming  into  a  room,  and  out  again ;  the  way  you 
shake  hands  or  give  a  smile.  The — the — 'pon  my  word,  I 
can  find  no  better  name  for  it  than  I  have  given — the  pol- 
ish that  makes  a  young  man  take  his  way  through  life  as 
easy  as  the  trot  of  a  high-stepping  horse." 

"You're  getting  uncommon  mixed,"  growled  the  doctor. 
"Oaks,  and  horses,  and  polish — 

"Ay,  ay,  the  polish,"  reiterated  the  priest.  ''Come,  now, 
Molloy,  not  so  mixed  as  you  think.  Isn't  it  the  polishing 

14 


A  FIRESIDE  IN  CLENANE 

up,  the  clipping  and  currying,  the  shoeing;  yes,  and  the 
breaking  in  and  the  training  that  teaches  the  thorough- 
bred his  paces  and  makes  of  the  colt  the  grand  hunter?" 

The  simile  was  too  apt  this  time;  Doctor  Molloy  was 
silent.  Shane  O'Conor  was  a  thoroughbred  indeed;  but 
he  had  been  allowed  to  run  loose  like  the  wild  colts  on  the 
mountain  side,  untamed  and  rough-coated  as  they.  Was 
Father  Blake  right?  Had  the  time  gone  by  for  breaking 
him  in? — Was  it  too  late? 

There  was  silence  in  the  little  parlor.  Though  the 
April  day  was  bright  without,  a  couple  of  turfs  smol- 
dered on  the  heap  of  ashes  in  the  hearth.  A  poor  room, 
in  the  poor,  ugly,  two-storied  stone  building  that  never- 
theless stood  apart  in  great  distinction  from  the  irregular 
line  of  hovels  and  the  three  dismal-looking  shops  that  rep- 
resented Clenane  on  the  map  of  Clare. 

Through  the  small  window,  open  to  the  sunshine,  came 
the  great  rough  voice  of  those  seas  that  were  forever 
breaking  in  impotent  rage  against  the  iron  coast-line,  not 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  The  view  out  of  that  window, 
across  the  scrap  of  garden  and  the  potato-field,  segregated 
from  the  wild  bowlder-strewn  stretches  only  by  one  of 
those  low  walls  built  of  big  loose  stones  peculiar  to  the 
West,  was  certainly  desolate.  Nevertheless,  in  the  spring 
light,  with  the  cloud  shadows  drifting  across  the  fields,  the 
belt  of  wood-line,  purple  against  the  blue  of  the  sky,  on 
one  side,  the  vision  of  indigo  sea,  white-flecked,  the  sad 
and  dreamy  poetry  of  Ireland  was  over  it  all. 

The  airs  that  blew  in  were  thin  and  pure  and  sharp; 
sweet  with  some  fragrance  of  gorse ;  salt  with  the  tang  of 
the  ocean.  The  gusty  winds  blew,  keen  and  yet  soft  after 
their  Irish  way — winds  from  the  illimitable  Atlantic,  that 

15 


NEW  WINE 

had  caught,  as  they  broke  against  the  little  presbytery, 
Hibernian  flavors  of  turf-smoke,  and  the  essences  of  un- 
cultivated land. 

The  west  coast  of  Ireland  is  as  a  bewitched  country 
where  giants  have  been  at  play,  flinging  from  their  hands, 
haphazard,  the  bowlders  that  have  been  their  toys.  It  is 
all  gray,  with  silver  high-light ;  with  running  lines  of  stone 
walls  picked  out  of  the  meager  grass  and  to  this  day  piled 
as  prehistoric  Kelts  piled  them.  There  is  no  pasture, 
worth  the  name,  save  within  the  demesnes  of  the  gentry, 
redeemed  from  the  waste  by  centuries  of  labor.  Horses, 
however,  take  kindly  enough  to  the  hardy  herbage  and 
roam  in  herds  within  the  primitive  boundaries.  For  the 
rest,  a  hovel  or  two,  each  with  its  potato  or  cabbage  patch, 
at  far  distance  one  from  the  other,  a  bunch  of  hovels  form- 
ing such  villages  as  Clenane — a  poor  country ! 

As  the  doctor  stood  looking  out,  the  priest  rose  and, 
leaning  on  a  crutch  stick,  hobbled  up  beside  him,  and  gazed 
forth  in  his  turn.  And  the  very  words  sprang  to  his 
lips : — 

"A  poor  country!"  he  said,  sighing. 

"You're  mighty  doleful  to-day,"  exclaimed  the  man  of 
medicine,  "with  all  due  respect  to  your  reverence !  Poor 
country,  you  call  it?  Doesn't  it  raise  the  best  horses? 
Isn't  it  the  finest  sporting  place  in  the  world?  Is  there  a 
salmon  that  beats  the  fellow  that  comes  leaping  out  of 
the  grand  waters  of  the  Corrib?  Draw  that  air  into  your 
chubes,  Father  Blake,  and  tell  me,  isn't  there  health  in 
every  pull  of  your  old  chest?  Health!"  he  ejaculated, 
"wouldn't  it  break  any  doctor's  heart?  Begorrah,  if  it 
wasn't  for  the  two  or  three  old  ladies  in  the  big  houses,  and 
the  hunting  accidents,  I'd  be  hard  set  to  get  along  at  all. 

16 


A  FIRESIDE  IN  CLENANE 

The  poor  country,  as  you  call  it,  hasn't  it  bred  the  finest 
young  man  that  you  could  lay  your  eyes  on,  this  side  of 
the  grave?  Look  over  there,  now!" 

He  shot  out  a  stubby  finger.  In  the  gap,  guarded  by 
the  two  odd-shaped,  jutting  rocks  that  were  as  the  watch- 
towers  of  that  stern  rampart,  facing  the  menacing  ocean, 
had  appeared  the  figure  of  a  man,  leaping  up  from  the 
shore,  silhouetted  black  against  the  sunlit  vision. 

"Shane !"  cried  the  priest,  and  his  voice  lost  its  some- 
what querulous  note  to  deepen  and  soften  as  over  a  be- 
loved name. 

"Shane  himself!"  the  doctor  exulted.  "Look  at  him 
now !  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  lad?  Look  at  the  stride  of 
him,  eating  up  the  ground  with  his  long  legs !  He's  been 
in  luck,  too,"  he  added,  rubbing  his  hands,  "look  at  the 
shine  in  his  net !" 

The  priest  did  not  answer.  He  was  gazing  upon  the 
advancing  figure  with  too  fond  a  concentration  to  be  able 
to  spare  a  word.  The  doctor  gave  expression  to  his 
thoughts :  "A  glorious  lad  !" 

The  figure  was  coming  along  in  strides  that  indeed  cov- 
ered the  ground  at  an  amazing  rate.  Around  it  a  re- 
triever, dripping  sparkles,  careered  in  circles  occasionally 
broken  by  a  darting  plunge.  Even  from  a  distance,  the 
perfect  balance  and  strength,  the  harmony  of  line  and 
movement,  the  lithe  activity,  were  a  pleasure  to  the  eye. 
There  came  a  whiff  of  memory  out  of  the  long  buried 
treasures  of  the  priest's  student  days,  when  he  had  yearned 
for  classic  lore.  The  youth,  indeed,  trod  the  morning  as 
Phoabus  the  skies.  He  was  near  enough  now  for  every  line 
of  the  countenance  to  have  grown  distinct.  In  the  clear, 

17 


NEW  WINE 

yellow,  cold  light,  its  singular  beauty  struck  the  old  man 
afresh. 

"The  Lord  forgive  me,"  he  said  to  himself,  "to  be 
thinking  of  Pagan  things,  when  it's  the  look  of  a  St.  Mi- 
chael he  has,  God  bless  him !  The  look  of  the  strong 
Archangel  that  has  never  sinned." 


Ill 

SHANE    O'CONOR 

IT  was  a  laughing  face  that  the  young  man  turned  upon 
the  two  watchers  as  he  came  towards  the  window,  having 
cleared  the  low  stone  wall  with  scarcely  an  alteration  in  his 
stride. 

Shane  O'Conor  had  the  pale  skin,  the  blue  eyes,  and 
the  dark  hair  of  the  true  Milesian,  but  his  natural,  clear 
pallor  was  overlaid  by  the  smooth  tan  that  such  coloring 
takes  on  under  healthy  exposure — something  akin  to  the 
warmth  that  comes  to  ancient  marble.  His  face  was 
sculptured  with  the  clean,  almost  hard  lines  which  are 
also  characteristic  of  the  race.  No  wonder  that  the  sight 
of  it  should  have  evoked  the  Greek  ideal  in  Father  Blake's 
mind.  The  jut  of  the  low  brow,  the  squareness  of  the 
strong  chin ;  the  curl  of  the  lip  and  the  lift  of  the  nostrils 
were  such  as  Phidias  might  have  delighted  to  model.  But 
here  was  none  of  the  softness  of  an  Apollo  or  an  Antinous : 
it  was  the  face  of  the  Greek  gone  forth  on  his  adventure 
and  turned  chieftain  in  a  conquered  country.  The  under- 
lying structure  was  there,  sure  enough,  in  all  its  original 
beauty;  but  upon  it  the  flesh  had  hardened;  curves  had 
passed  into  angles ;  self-conscious  placidity  of  strength 
into  an  almost  ecstatic  vitality.  The  elder  man  smiled 
down  on  that  vision  of  youth. 

"Why,  me  boy,  you're  as  wet  as  your  own  dog!" 
shouted  the  doctor. 

19 


NEW  WINE 

And  indeed  the  fisherman  glittered  and  dripped  as  he 
took,  over  the  solitary  flower-bed,  a  leap  which  landed  him 
under  the  window. 

Shane,  in  mock  salutation,  plucked  his  cap  from  his 
black  head  that  curled  in  spite  of  close  cropping. 

"The  top  of  the  morning  to  Church  and  Faculty !"  he 
cried,  with  a  sort  of  gay  irony  in  his  lusty  young  voice. 
"Glad  to  see  you  on  your  legs  again,  Father  Blake. 
Wet,  is  it,  doctor?  Sure  there's  nothing  so  wholesome  as 
the  salt  water.  So  don't  be  building  on  another  case 
here."  He  struck  his  chest  as  he  spoke,  made  a  not  un- 
graceful gesture  with  his  cap  towards  the  priest,  and  re- 
placed it. 

"Troth  and  it's  what  I've  been  saying  meself,"  laughed 
Molloy  in  his  rich  brogue.  "If  I  were  to  depend  on  the 
likes  of  you  for  my  living!  Yet,  mind  you,  a  man  may 
play  a  game  too  many  with  his  cliubes.  Once  you  let  the 
mischief  get  into  the  chubes,  as  I  am  always  saying — 

The  young  man  cut  across  his  speech  with  an  uncon- 
scious masterfulness  that  confirmed  some  of  Father 
Blake's  lamentations. 

"I  took  my  little  boat  out  last  night,  and  it's  the  grand 
tossing  we  had,  Mike  and  myself,  and  Leprechaun  here. 
And  it's  poor  sport  we  got  in  the  end  of  it.  Mike's  taken 
the  little  hakes  to  his  mother ;  and  I  kept  the  pick  of  the 
basket,  such  as  it  is.  Will  your  reverence  accept  of  the 
offering?" 

He  set  his  net  upon  the  gravel  path  and  drew  forth  a 
silver  fish  which  he  held  up  by  the  gills  between  slender 
brown  forefinger  and  thumb. 

"  Ton  my  word,"  he  said,  "it  was  flapping  still  when  I 
lifted  it  out  of  the  boat." 

20 


SHANE  O'CONOR 

"Take  it  around  to  Mary,  there's  a  good  lad.  It's  de- 
lighted she'll  be." 

"And  is  the  hand  that  vaccinated  you  to  go  empty,  while 
the  one  that  baptized  you  is  filled?"  exclaimed  Molloy. 
There  was  a  tinge  of  jealousy  in  his  jocoseness. 

Shane  laid  the  fish  delicately  on  the  ground  while  he 
gathered  his  net ;  then,  picking  it  up  again,  as  before,  by 
the  gills,  held  it  at  arm's  length,  evidently  prepared  for 
departure.  This,  Leprechaun  understanding  with  the 
sagacity  of  his  kind,  sprang  up  from  his  panting  rest, 
shook  himself,  and  recommenced  his  circling  leaps,  barking 
deep-throatedly  the  while. 

"Down,  you  villain !"  cried  his  master  in  a  good  humored 
voice.  Then  he  grinned  impudently  up  at  Molloy. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  there  at  all,  when  it's  plas- 
tering old  Biddy  M'Gaw  you  ought  to  be,  and  she  groan- 
ing and  rocking  herself  on  the  doorstep,  as  I  went  by,  and 
asking  me  in  the  name  of  God  if  any  one  had  seen  a  sight 
of  the  doctor?"  He  turned  on  his  heel.  "I've  only  the 
one  fish  left,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought  (it  must  be 
owned  that  he  said  "wan").  "And  I  want  to  give  that 
away." 

"Will  your  honor  tell  us  who  to  ?" 

The  jibe  was  delivered  by  the  doctor  with  a  wink  and  a 
nudge  in  his  reverence's  ribs. 

"Who  do  you  think?" 

Young  O'Conor  glanced  over  his  shoulder  with  a  flash- 
ing smile  and  a  kindred  gleam  of  the  luminous  blue  eyes. 
The  next  instant  both  he  and  his  dog  had  vanished  round 
the  corner  of  the  house,  and  the  whole  sunlit  expanse 
seemed  suddenly  and  unaccountably  darkened  to  the  gaze 
of  the  two  friends. 

21 


NEW  WINE 

"Ah,  I'm  getting  old.  A  regular  old  fogey,  that's 
what  I  am,"  grunted  Molloy,  stretching  himself  with  a 
stifled  yawn. 

"But  it's  the  grand  thing,"  said  the  priest,  "there 
should  be  such  youth  in  the  world  to  remind  us  that  we 
had  our  own  day.  'Pon  me  soul,  every  time  I  do  be  say- 
ing those  words,  as  I  go  up  the  altar  steps :  'Ad  Deum  qui 
Icetificat  juventutem  meant,'  it's  the  face  of  Shane  that 
rises  before  me." 

"Coupled  with  the  face  of  Miss  Moira  Blake." 

The  doctor  spoke  dryly ;  yet  there  was  a  twinkle  in  his 
eye.  The  old  priest  wheeled  on  him  so  quickly  that  he 
nearly  lost  his  balance,  and  had  to  grip  the  window-sill  to 
steady  hmself. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  man,"  he  exclaimed,  "don't  be 
cutting  those  kind  of  jokes  !" 

"Jokes?  Devil  a  joke,  begging  your  reverence's  par- 
don. Don't  you  know  who  my  brave  Shane  is  bringing  his 
love-token  to?  And  a  queer  love-token  it  is !  Did  you  see 
the  look  in  his  face?  Sure  and  isn't  it  the  talk  from  one 
end  of  the  parish  to  the  other?" 

Father  Blake  made  his  way  back  to  his  seat  with  diffi- 
culty, and  turned  a  countenance  drawn  with  pain  upon  the 
speaker.  The  doctor  was  pulling  on  a  doeskin  riding- 
glove  much  the  worse  for  wear,  with  the  deliberation  of 
the  visitor  who  means  to  linger  yet  a  while. 

"The  talk  of  the  parish?"  repeated  Father  Blake. 
"And  I'm  sorry  ury  folk  haven't  better  things  to  talk  about 
than  to  be  taking  away  the  character  of  the  innocent." 

In  his  turn  Molloy  caught  up  the  phrase  with  a  tone 
that  was  half  serious,  half  reproachful. 

"Taking  away  the  character  of  the  innocent?     There's 


SHANE  O'CONOR 

not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  place  that  would  dream 
of  doing  that — barring  yourself !  To  think  that  I  should 
live  to  hear  such  an  interpretation  of  the  sweetest  love 
story  in  County  Clare  from  your  own  consecrated  lips  !" 

"D'ye  mean  it's  marriage  they're  thinking  of?  Shane 
O'Conor,  grandson  to  the  Earl  of  Kilmore,  and  little  Moira 
Blake,  my  own  great-niece,  whose  grandfather  was  bred  in 
the  same  cabin  as  myself,  and  ran  barefoot  to  open  the 
gate  for  his  lordship  and  catch  his  pennies  as  he  rode  by 
— the  same  as  meself?  Shane  O'Conor  and  poor  little 
Moira !  You'll  be  telling  me  next  he's  asked  Micky  M'Gaw 
to  be  his  best  man." 

"It's  very  sarcastic  you  are."  Doctor  Molloy  himself 
displayed  a  certain  sarcastic  emphasis  as  he  spoke.  "But 
there's  another  way  of  putting  it.  Shane  O'Conor,  the 
penniless  young  man — Musha,  don't  be  interruptin' — what 
do  you  call  him  but  penniless  when  there's  not  enough 
money  at  the  back  of  him  to  pay  for  decent  schooling,  as 
you've  been  lamenting  yourself,  and  he's  grown  up  as  wild 
as  the  fisher  lads,  for  all  his  gentry?  Shane  O'Conor,  with 
no  a  prospect  in  the  world  unless  what  he  can  get  out  of 
a  fling  with  a  horse?  Shane  O'Conor,  I  say,  the  poor  or- 
phan boy,  hampered  with  the  big  name  that's  no  use  to 
him,  and  a  pack  of  grand  relatives  that  don't  as  much  as 
know  if  he's  alive,  and  Moira  Blake  the  finest,  sweetest 
girl  in  the  barony,  brought  up  like  a  lady  in  the  convent, 
and,  as  like  as  not,  to  have  a  tidy  bit  of  her  own  from  that 
nephew  of  yours,  Blake  the  warm  farmer,  who  can  well 
afford  it — well  afford  it,  mind  you — 

"Stop,  stop!"  said  the  priest.  "You  have  my  brain 
whirling !" 

The  doctor  pulled  the  buttonless  flap  of  his  glove  me- 

23 


NEW  WINE 

chanically  towards  its  buttonhole;  took  up  his  riding- 
whip,  and,  tucking  it  under  one  arm,  stood  surveying  his 
patient  with  a  mixture  of  good-natured  contempt  and  un- 
derstanding on  his  rubicund,  weather-beaten  countenance. 

"When  it  settles  down,  ye'll  get  accustomed  to  the 
idea,"  he  remarked.  "I'm  off  out  of  this.  Have  that  win- 
dow shut  the  minute  the  sun  goes  off  it.  Let  us  not  have 
the  gout  driven  up  into  your  chubes.  No  saying  mass, 
mind  ye,  till  I  give  you  leave.  I'll  be  round  again  in  a  two 
or  three  days." 

"But  the  child's  not  more  than  sixteen !"  insisted  Father 
Blake,  his  accents  still  those  of  bewilderment. 

"Seventeen  her  next  birthday,"  said  the  doctor  from  the 
threshold.  "Who  knows  it  better  than  myself?" 

He  slammed  the  door,  breaking  into  a  whistle  the  mo- 
ment he  got  into  the  passage.  A  minute  afterwards  the 
brisk  trot  of  his  horse  rang  out  from  the  stony  road,  fell 
subdued  as  the  rider  passed  on  to  the  turf,  to  die  away,  in 
a  muffled  canter. 

The  priest,  supporting  his  white  head  in  his  hand,  sat 
in  a  troubled  muise,  gazing  into  the  red  embers.  The  reve- 
lation, made  in  jest,  had  startled  him.  More,  it  had  pro- 
foundly disturbed  him. 

There  are  strands  in  the  Irish  character  which  you  have 
to  be  Irish  yourself  to  disentangle,  even  to  understand. 
The  Irish  peasant  has  a  singular  appreciation  of  the  value 
of  good  blood,  ancestry,  noble  tradition.  He  has  his  own 
pride  of  race,  sucked  out  of  the  earth ;  and  many  a  strug- 
gling farmer,  brought  up  in  a  cabin  on  Indian  meal  and 
potatoes,  despises  in  his  heart,  considers  himself  vastly  su- 
perior to,  the  wealthy  son  of  a  shopkeeper  who  rolls  by  him 
in  his  new  motor — "He's  got  his  money  in  trade !" — That 


stamps  him.  He  that  is  starving  on  a  patch  of  soil,  is  "on; 
the  land,"  that  sets  him  in  the  finer  pride  of  soul. 

Father  Blake  himself,  who,  through  long  association, 
had  grown  into  the  most  familiar  friendship  with  Doctor 
Molloy,  nevertheless,  in  some  hidden,  unregenerate  corner 
of  his  mind,  looked  down  upon  him  as  having  sprung  from 
Galway  Town,  out  of  a  grocery  store.  This  secret  con- 
tempt found  expression  now  in  a  muttered  exclamation  : 

"Sure,  the  poor  fellow — how  could  he  know  any  better? 
How  could  he  have  learned  the  difference?  .  .  .  Shane 
O'Conor,  and  Moira  Blake.  .  .  .  The  son  of  the  great 
O'Conors,  and  the  daughter  of  the  poor  Blakes !  What  if 
this  O'Conor  were  poor  in  the  world's  goods,  and  this  Blake 
comparatively  well  off  in  them?"  The  difference  remained 
immense,  the  gap  impassable,  in  the  old  priest's  mind.  It 
was  out  of  the  order  of  things  altogether.  It  shocked 
his  sense  of  the  becoming;  struck  against  some  in- 
stinct, some  sentiment  deeply  ingrained,  which  held  to  ar- 
gument a  front  invulnerable.  For  before  sentiment  mere 
facts  lose  their  power,  reason  is  vain,  justice  insufficient. 
It  is  a  thing  stronger  than  passion,  than  prejudice,  than 
enthusiasm.  All  these  may  be  conquered,  worn  out,  one 
way  or  another,  laid  in  the  dust — but  sentiment,  never. 
And  sentiment  is  the  mainspring  of  the  Irish  character : 
therefore  are  those  who  would  rule,  or  guide,  men  helpless 
before  it. 

Coming  as  they  did  from  real  old  stock,  the  Blakes 
might  despise  the  Molloys ;  but  in  the  same  measure,  and 
through  the  same  impulses,  they  honored  the  O'Conors. 

The  lacunce  in  the  education  of  young  Shane  were  an 
old  grievance  of  Father  Blake's.  But  the  news  he  had  just 
received  stirred  chronic  regret  to  acute  perturbation.  The 

25 


NEW  WINE 

boy  had  been  brought  up  out  of  his  proper  sphere,  hope- 
lessly cheated  of  his  natural  rights.  That  he  should  fur- 
thermore be  regarding  the  priest's  own  great-niece  with 
eyes  of  love ;  that  the  whole  village  should  have  "made  the 
match"  in  their  gossiping  talks  already,  seemed  the  cul- 
mination of  long  apprehensions,  the  last  touch  to  forebod- 
ing conclusions. 

How  had  he  himself  failed?  How  could  he  have  acted 
so  as  to  have  prevented  this  calamity?  He  searched  his 
conscience  with  a  keen  pain.  Shane  had  been  left  in  his 
charge,  he  alone  was  responsible.  How  had  he  acquitted 
himself  of  his  trust? 

"I  was  too  easy-going,"  thought  the  old  man.  "Seeing 
him  run  about,  such  a  handsome  little  fellow,  so  happy,  so 
healthy,  I  was  too  well  satisfied  to  let  things  be.  Maybe 
I  was  too  fond  of  him !"  He  struck  his  heart  with  a  groan. 

He  recalled,  year  by  year,  the  stages  of  his  guardian- 
ship. .  .  .  The  day  when  the  pale  young  widow  had  made 
her  appearance  in  Clenane,  and  the  astounding  fact  be- 
come known  that  the  child  in  her  arms  was  one  of  "the  rale 
O'Conors" — grandson  of  the  last  Kilmore  who  had  dwelt 
amongst  them;  of  him  who  had  roystered  and  drunk  and 
dueled,  and  raced  and  gambled,  who  had  split  up  and  sold 
the  great  estates  of  Kilmore,  carried  the  spoils  to  Eng- 
land, turned  Protestant,  married  an  heiress  and  founded  a 
new  and  alien  race. 

Kilmore  the  Apostate,  who  had  once  been  Kilmore  the 
Splendid !  .  .  .  He  whose  memory  was  the  glory  and  the 
execration  of  that  simple  and  passionate  folk,  once  his 
people !  This  dazzling,  meteoric  personage  had  shone  like 
Lucifer,  star  of  the  morning,  all  in  splendor  in  the  skies  of 
Clenane,  to  fall  into  regions  beyond  its  ken,  still  flaming, 

26 


SHANE  O'CONOR 

but  with  a  new  and  lurid  glow,  even  as  Lucifer,  into  the 
pit  of  dreadful  night. 

Over  there,  in  that  "black  Protestant"  England,  he 
had  a  large  family.  A  son  of  his,  second  in  the  ranks, 
had  in  his  turn  left  numerous  progeny.  And  these,  im- 
poverished, scattered  in  many  parts  of  the  globe.  The 
eldest  was  the  father  of  the  little  Shane. 

He  had  emigrated  to  America,  married  a  gentle  Vir- 
ginian girl,  like  himself  of  finer  blood  than  fortune ;  born  a 
dreamer.  He  carried  her  off  to  California,  sank  his  all  in 
an  orange  farm ;  lost  it  and  his  health  together  and  died 
before  his  child  could  speak.  The  young  widow  was  seized 
with  a  strange  craving — sprung  perhaps  of  some  inherited 
yearning  in  the  mind  of  the  lost  beloved  of  which  she  alone 
had  cognizance — to  get  back  to  the  land  that  was  the 
birthplace  of  his  race. 

She  knew  it  was  a  kindly  land,  from  the  many  Irish 
exiles  who  came  her  way ;  knew  it  was  a  Catholic  land,  and 
she  herself  was  of  the  old  faith.  She  knew,  too,  there 
was  poverty  there,  so  that  one  who  as  poor  and  gentle, 
might  live  poor  and  yet  respected.  It  was  all  simple  as  a 
fairy  tale ;  and  as  easily  worked  out.  She  found  the  name 
of  Clenane  on  the  map;  and  she  read  up  in  a  guide  book 
how  the  ruined  tower  of  Kilmore,  hard  by,  still  dominated 
land  and  sea,  on  the  coast  of  Clare. 

An  emigrant  ship  landed  her  and  her  babe  into  Galway 
port.  And  all  in  her  weeds,  perilously  seated,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  Ife,  on  an  outside  car,  she  drove  from 
the  nearest  station  into  Clenane  village,  to  halt  at  the 
priest's  house. 

"His  name  is  Shane  O'Conor,"  she  said,  as  she  placed 
the  wrapped-up  child  into  the  arms  of  the  astonished 

27 


NEW  WINE 

Father  Blake.  Then  she  burst  into  tears.  "I  have 
brought  him  to  the  country  of  the  O'Conors,"  she  said  in 
her  soft,  Southern  drawl,  "not  knowing  where  else  to  go." 

Her  widow's  raiment  told  more  than  she  could  speak. 

And  so  it  had  gone  on — like  a  fairy  tale.  The  priest 
found  shelter  for  her  in  the  Blakes'  farm  till  what  time 
they  had  built  her  a  long,  low,  rough  cottage  out  of  the 
fallen  stones  of  the  ruined  tower  of  Kilmore.  The  re- 
mains of  the  old  castle  stood  on  land  which  now  belonged 
to  the  Blakes ;  of  no  use  save  for  the  making  of  a  show  to 
strangers.  No  one  grudged  a  child  of  the  O'Conor  the 
refuge  it  afforded — an  O'Conor  come  back  to  the  old  faith 
and  to  his  lost  heritage.  There  spread  a  soothaying 
among  the  old  superstitious  folk  who  sat  nodding  and 
crooning  over  their  turf  fires — old  men  and  old  women, 
wrapped  alike  in  dirty  blankets  and  alike  smoking  pipes — • 
that  all  would  be  his  one  day  and  that  he  would  redeem 
the  name,  rebuild  the  glories.  And  when  the  widow  died, 
the  scattered  poverty-stricken  community  adopted  the 
child  as  its  own. 

There  was  not  much  mourning  for  the  widow,  because, 
though  they  were  civil  to  her,  they  had  always  kept  her  at 
a  distance — a  stranger  in  their  midst — wondering  "what 
had  ailed  an  O'Conor  at  all  to  get  himself  a  wife  over  away 
in  America ;  a  wife  with  an  English  name ;  and  them  for- 
eign ways  of  her,  that  you'd  never  know  what  she'd  be  at 
next."  They  were  much  shocked  that  she  should  dress 
the  boy  like  one  of  their  own  children,  in  frieze  or  in  cot- 
ton; and  let  him  run  barefoot  and  bareheaded,  Sundays 
and  week-days.  Might  she  not  have  provided  him  with  a 
"doaty"  blue  plush  coat,  trimmed  with  lace,  such  as  Mrs. 
Blake  brought  back  from  Galway  Town,  last  market  day, 

28 


SHANE  O'CONOR 

for  little  Tom  to  wear  at  the  chapel?  Ought  she  not  at 
least  to  have  got  him  a  pair  of  patent  leather  shoes  "at  the 
shop,"  to  keep  his  feet,  in  the  name  of  God,  from  the 
flags,  when  he'd  be  trotting  by  her  side,  between  the  rows 
of  kneeling  people,  to  the  Kilmore  pew:  that  sacred  en- 
closure which  no  one  else  had  ever  occupied  since  the 
falling  away  of  the  O'Conors? 

Irrationally  there  were  equally  captious  comments  over 
those  habits  and  customs  at  the  stone  cottage  which 
marked  the  gentility  of  its  mistress  in  the  midst  of  penury. 
"It  'ud  break  your  heart  to  hear  her  strictness  with  him, 
as  he  sat  at  his  bowl  of  porridge.  The  poor  child  could 
not  take  a  bite  or  a  sup  but  she  was  after  him."  The 
mothers  opined  she'd  end  by  draining  all  the  color  out  of 
him,  with  "them  baths."  There  was  a  positive  storm  of 
indignation  when  it  became  known  that  the  little  boy's  head 
was  washed  every  day — that  crop  of  chestnut  curls,  des- 
tined to  turn  black  with  years !  And  "didn't  she  put  him 
to  sleep  under  an  open  window  ?  If  ever  she  reared  him  it 
'ud  be  a  wonder !" 

That  Shane  should  thrive ;  that  his  eyes  should  shine  as 
brightly  as  his  copper  curls ;  that,  if  his  cheeks  were  not 
deep-hued  like  those  of  the  village  children,  they  had 
nevertheless  the  perfect  bloom  of  health,  overlaid  with  the 
gold  of  the  sea  and  the  wind  and  the  sun;  that  he  had  a 
chest  as  strong  as  smith's  bellows  and  was  growing  up 
straight  and  swift  and  muscular — altered  their  opinion 
not  at  all.  And  when  he  was  seven  and  his  mother  died, 
all  Clenane  agreed  that  it  was  well  for  her,  the  creature. 
Sure  she  was  doing  no  good  at  all.  And  maybe  it  would 
be  the  saving  of  Shane. 

The  priest  had  been  Mrs.  O'Conor's  sole  support — a 

29 


NEW  WINE 

father,  a  friend,  a  guardian  angel.  It  was  he  who  had 
managed  her  little  money  affairs,  and  extracted  from 
her  American  family  that  small  inheritance,  that  five  thou- 
sand dollars,  which  he  carefully  invested  in  Consols.  It 
was  he  who  communicated  with  the  little  boy's  uncle,  the 
Lord  Kilmore  whose  name  appeared  in  the  papers,  who 
had  been  given  high  dignities  over  yonder;  who  was 
scarcely  ever  spoken  of  in  Clenane  without  a  curse  and  a 
spitting  aside  as  one  who  spent  his  days  (Clenane  truly 
believed)  sitting  in  the  House  of  Lords,  making  "black 
Protestant"  laws  against  the  sacred  rights  of  Ireland. 

When  the  answer  came  back  from  Lord  Kilmore — 
which  it  did  after  a  long  delay — the  priest  himself  was 
disposed  to  agree  with  his  flock.  The  peer  offered  to  take 
charge  of  the  child  if  he  were  given  a  free  hand  to  bring 
him  up  in  the  religion  his  father  had  been  born  in.  When 
the  widow  read  the  letter  she  tore  it  in  two,  a  red  spot 
on  either  pale  cheek. 

"He'd  better  go  barefoot,"  she  said. 

"Ay,  child,"  said  the  priest,  with  a  kindred  flush,  "so 
long  as  it's  on  the  right  road." 

On  Mrs.  O'Conor's  death  the  offer  was  renewed.  Father 
Blake,  as  legal  guardian — the  mother  had  seen  to  that — 
then  wrote  to  refuse,  in  terms  dictated  by  the  strength 
of  his  religious  feeling  and  his  warm  heart. 

And  so  the  matter  dropped.  And  the  child  grew  up, 
with  what  tutoring  the  priest  and  the  doctor  could  in- 
culcate between  them — which  was  small  enough — and  the 
splendid  physical  training  that  wild,  open-air  life  could 
give  him.  Mrs.  Blake  took  him  into  the  farmhouse:  he 
became  big  brother  to  baby  Moira. 

But  while  he  was  still  scarcely  more  than  seventeen, 

30 


SHANE  O'CONOR 

Shane  set  up  for  himself  in  the  gray  stone  cottage,  partly 
in  deference  to  some  odd  feeling  of  Father  Blake's  that 
it  was  meeter  for  an  O'Conor  to  be  in  a  house  of  his  own, 
however  poor,  rather  than  beholden  to  anybody;  and 
partly  because  of  the  lad's  own  independence  of  charac- 
ter and  that  love  of  sporting  adventure  which  kept  him 
out  on  the  sea  or  roaming  the  hills  and  bogs  at  all  hours 
of  day  or  night ;  which  habits  discomfited  and  annoyed 
the  worthy  farming  couple. 

A  village  woman  kept  the  odd  gray  eyrie  for  him  in 
some  kind  of  order  and  cooked  his  irregular  meals;  and 
he  went  forth  and  came  back  to  it,  like  the  eagle  that 
knows  no  law  but  his  own.  The  doctor  taught  him  to 
shoot,  and  gave  him  his  old  gun.  The  fishermen  took  him 
out  with  them,  and  he  learned  to  better  them  at  their  own 
craft.  Mr.  Blake's  sons — very  fine  gentlemen,  these — 
dealing  in  cattle  and  horses,  took  him  on  the  Corrib  and 
instructed  him  in  the  mysteries  of  the  fly.  And  Father 
Blake  himself  saved  the  price  of  a  fishing-rod  for  him  out 
of  his  poor  dues. 

Shane  would  get  the  loan  of  a  rough  horse,  now  and 
again,  in  the  hunting  season;  and  this  led  to  his  discov- 
ering the  means  of  turning  an  honest  penny  for  himself. 
"He'd  the  grandest  hand  on  a  horse  as  iver  was ;  a  seat 
that  a  beast  'ud  feel  no  more  than  a  swallow's  but  it  'ud 
be  easier  to  shake  off  Hag's  Head  itself,  once  me  brave 
Shane  had  the  control  of  the  saddle!"  "Sure  wasn't  it 
born  in  him?  Couldn't  anny  O'Conor  do  annything  with 
a  horse?" 

So  when  there  was  a  nag  to  be  sold  with  some  ugly 
trick  of  temper  or  gait,  who  could  ride  him  off  like  Shane? 
Or,  if  there  was  a  lovely  two-year-old  to  be  got  into  the 

31 


NEW  WINE 

ways  of  the  hunt,  or  a  shyer  to  be  steadied,  or  a  shirker 
at  the  walls  to  be  heartened,  there  was  no  boy  in  the  whole 
countryside  to  be  trusted  like  Shane.  So  he  began  to  reap 
quite  a  harvest  of  sovereigns  and  silver  pieces. 

Father  Blake  thought  of  this  dangerous  and  precarious 
traffic,  and  shook  his  head. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  allowed  any  of  it  at  all.  It's  no 
life  for  him.  It's  no  company  for  him.  .  .  .  Maybe  if 
I'd  gone  over  to  'see  his  uncle  myself — Protestant  and 
English  as  he  is,  he's  an  O'Conor — he'd  have  heard  rea- 
son. Maybe  I  could  have  shamed  him  into  parting  with 
a  few  pounds  without  bargaining  for  the  child's  soul. 
Maybe  I  ought  to  have  swallowed  my  pride  for  him,  and 
got  him  taken  in  for  charity  at  some  school.  The  Fathers 
would  have  had  him  that  way,  I'll  be  bound.  Maybe  it 
was  too  fond  of  him  I  was.  Maybe  I  was  too  glad  to 
keep  him.  And  now  to  hear  that  it's  wanting  to  marry 
into  my  own  family  he  is.  What  am  I  going  to  do  at 
all?" 

In  his  absorption  he  failed  to  distinguish  that  the  foot- 
steps approaching  along  the  narrow  passage  could  not 
belong  to  Mary  the  housekeeper's  flapping  slipper,  but 
to  some  springing  tread  that  carried  youth.  The  door 
opened;  a  bright  head  was  thrust  in  and  a  soft  voice  in- 
quired : — 

"Are  you  there,  father  dear?" 

With  which  unnecessary  question,  Moira  Blake  en- 
tered the  room. 


IV 


MOIRA 

MANY  women  are  born  to  delight  and  torment  the 
world;  many  there  are  whose  loveliness  troubles  while 
it  attracts ;  some  that  demand  admiration  as  a  right,  and 
some  that  plead  for  it  with  a  sort  of  plaintive  appeal; 
some  that  coax  and  cajole,  and  others  that  sweetly  in- 
sinuate. But  there  are  just  a  few  like  Moira,  who  go 
about  life  with  compassion  in  their  eyes.  The  woman  born 
to  pity — if  ever  there  was  one,  Moira  was  she. 

When  she  looked  at  a  child,  there  was  the  sorrow  for 
all  the  unhappy  children  on  earth  in  her  eyes.  It  hardly 
wanted  the  exquisite  soft  tones  in  which  the  words  were 
sure  to  come:  "The  poor  little  child!"  .  .  .  The  birds, 
the  beasts  on  her  father's  farm,  the  old  crones  in  the  vil- 
lage with  long  griefs  behind  them,  the  young  mothers 
with  their  troubles  before  them — all  came  within  the  ra- 
dius of  Moira's  tender-heartedness.  It  would  even  seem 
as  if  Shane  himself,  in  the  grandeur  of  his  lusty  youth, 
at  the  topling  apex  of  his  manly  exploits,  presented  to  her 
mind  more  cause  for  motherly  tolerance,  for  womanly 
condescending  pitifulness  towards  the  male  and  his  rash, 
nonsensical  ways,  than  admiration. 

Now,  with  a  single  glance  at  the  forlorn  figure  by  the 
hearth,  she,  as  it  were,  spread  sheltering  wings  about  it. 

"And  I'm  afraid  your  poor  foot's  bad !  And  the  fire 
down  on  you,  and  you  perishing!  What's  Mary  about 

33 


NEW  WINE 

at  all?  There,  I  know  she's  busy  ironing,  the  creature! 
And  I  ran  in  to  give  her  a  hand  with  the  cottas.  And 
I  knew  you'd  only  be  having  the  cold  bacon  for  dinner, 
father  dear.  So  I  brought  the  finest  fish  you  ever  saw 
• — that  was  given  me,  fresh  out  of  the  sea  not  a  minute 
ago.  And  I'm  going  to  cook  it  for  you  myself." 

Moira,  by  this  time,  was  kneeling  on  the  patchwork 
rug,  and  with  deft  hands  was  building  up  the  turf  and 
coaxing  the  glow  with  little  shreds  in  the  reddest  corners. 

"Mary's  a  bit  cross.  The  iron's  been  contrary  on  her. 
So  I  didn't  stop  to  talk.  I  just  laid  my  fish  in  a  pail  of 
fresh  water,  and — 

The  priest,  after  the  first  smile  and  look,  had  turned 
his  gaze  downwards,  as  if  the  movements  of  her  busy 
hands  absorbed  his  attention.  He  now  lifted  his  eyes  and 
fixed  them  upon  her,  with  grave  inquiry.  These  eyes 
always  shone  with  an  almost  startling  flame  out  of  their 
deep  setting;  but  to-day,  from  the  haggard  face,  from 
shadows  of  suffering,  they  had  so  piercing  an  intensity, 
that  Moira,  dropping  her  fragment  of  turf,  sat  back  on 
her  heels  with  a  hurried : — 

"Father,  dear,  what  is  it?" 

"Who  is  it  you  got  your  fish  from,  child  ?" 

A  smile  leaped  from  Moira's  sweet  lips  to  her  soft  eyes. 

"Shane  caught  it." 

"Is  it  Mister  O'Connor  you're  meaning?" 

The  color  flooded  the  fair  face,  dyeing  even  the  white 
throat.  Yet  it  was  with  a  perfect  dignity  that  Moira 
said,  after  a  little  silence: — 

"It  would  be  strange  to  begin  calling  him  Mr.  O'Conor, 
when  he's  been  Shane  to  me  ever  since  I  could  speak  at 
all,  if  that's  what  you're  thinking,  father." 

34 


M01RA 

"I'm  thinking  you're  growing  out  of  the  child;  that 
you're  grown  up,  both  of  you ;  that  you  ought  to  be  lay- 
ing aside  the  things  of  a  child  now  that  you  are  near  a 
woman." 

"You'd  not  be  thinking  I'd  lay  Shane  aside? — nor  him 
me?" 

The  first  words  were  spoken  with  a  flash.  The  second 
under  her  breath.  The  priest  saw  that  he  had  made  one 
of  those  mistakes  that  trip  up  the  best  intentioned ;  which 
seem  trivial  in  themselves,  yet  have  far-reaching  results. 
Manlike,  in  seeking  to  undo,  he  hopelessly  entangled. 

"The  folk  might  be  talking." 

"Talking?"  Moira  rose.  "And  what  could  they  be 
saying  of  me  and  Shane?" 

The  girl  had  the  skin  which  is  typically  Irish,  with  the 
fine  grain,  the  soft  texture,  which  shows  the  faintest  stir 
of  the  blood.  The  color  came  and  went  on  her  cheek. 
Her  lips  trembled,  and  her  voice  shook,  as  she  cried : — 

"Folk  would  be  hard  set  to  find  anything  to  hold  up 
against  Shane  and  me,  that  have  grown  up  together." 

"I'm  not  saying.  I'm  not  saying.  You're  a  good 
child,  Moira,  and  he's  a  good  lad.  God  forbid  a  word 
should  be  spoken !  There,  there !  Thank  you  kindly  for 
your  thought  about  the  fish,  but  didn't  the  boy  bring  me 
the  match  of  it?  And  sure,  if  Mary  let  you  cook  them 
both,  you  might  be  taking  the  one  over  to  Biddy  M'Gaw." 

But  Moira  was  not  to  be  distracted.  She  came  close 
to  the  old  man's  chair,  and  stood  looking  down  at  him 
steadily.  She  was  rather  pale  now ;  and  the  fire  had  gone 
out  of  her  hazel  eyes,  misted  as  with  tearful  thought. 

"Wouldn't  you  be  telling  me  what's  at  the  back  of  your 
mind,  Uncle  Dennis?" 

35 


NEW  WINE 

Father  Blake  hesitated.  His  lips  moved  without 
speech. 

"It's  true,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  as  his  anxious  glance 
ran  her  up  and  down.  "The  doctor's  right,  it's  a  woman 
grown  altogether  you  are,  by  the  looks  of  you.  And  I, 
thinking  it  was  the  child  you  were  still !" 

Moira  Blake  was  indeed  cast  in  a  generous  mold  and 
seemed  nearer  twenty  than  not  yet  seventeen.  The  girl 
had  a  richness  about  her,  as  if  nothing  that  concerned  her 
could  be  on  an  ungracious  scale.  Her  chestnut  hair 
sprang  with  extraordinary  vitality  from  her  broad,  low 
forehead,  and  was  packed  in  tight  coils  at  the  back  of 
her  shapely  head,  to  conceal  an  almost  too  great  luxuri- 
ance. She  was  tall  and  broad-shouldered,  with  a  set  of 
head  and  throat  and  waist  that  made  her  tender  woman- 
hood give  somehow  an  impression  as  of  a  pillar  of  strength. 
Even  now,  troubled  as  she  was,  there  spread  from  her  a 
warm  domination;  an  air,  in  spite  of  her  April  years,  al- 
most of  wisdom,  which  made  the  poor,  good,  anxious  elder 
feel  small  and  foolish  in  his  soul. 

"They're  coupling  your  name  with  that  of  young  Shane 
O'Conor.  The  news  of  it  has  but  now  come  to  my  ears." 

He  mumbled  the  words  shamefacedly.  As  the  explana- 
tion was  drawn  from  him  it  sounded  somehow  singularly 
inadequate. 

"Is  that  all?" 

Moira's  quiet  tone  took  the  listener  so  utterly  by  sur- 
prise that  he  remained  open-mouthed.  She  broke  another 
turf  across  the  fire,  straightened  the  ragged  rug,  set  the 
doctor's  chair  back  in  its  place ;  then  she  said : — 

"I'm  thinking  I'd  be  better  getting  that  fish  on  the  grid 

36 


MOIRA 

for  you.  It's  gone  twelve  this  long  time.  Will  I  be  lay- 
ing the  cloth  first,  to  save  poor  Mary?" 

Her  tone  was  extremely  respectful,  but  intangibly 
stand-off. 

"Moira,  child ''  Father  Blake  put  out  a  gray, 

trembling  hand  and  caught  at  her  skirt.  "You're  not 
taking  what  I  said  in  bad  part,  are  you?" 

"Ah,  no,  father.  To  be  sure,  not  at  all."  She  drew 
away;  caught  up  the  coarse  white  table-cloth  out  of  the 
recesses  of  the  mock  mahogany  chiffonier;  shook  and 
spread  it  with  the  steady  deftness  of  movement  peculiar 
to  her.  There  was  a  jagged  hole  in  the  middle,  and  she 
bent  over  it,  clacking  her  tongue :  "Tut-tut,  if  I'd  known 
that,  I'd  have  had  it  mended  for  you.  I  daren't  be  going 
after  another  one,  with  Mary  in  the  state  she  is,  the 
creature." 

"She  generally  puts  the  cruet  over  it,"  said  the  priest 
humbly.  And  then,  with  a  quaver  in  his  voice: 
"Moira !"  he  appealed. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him  across  the  table,  one  shapely, 
capable  finger  still  planted  in  the  middle  of  the  hole.  Then 
a  smile  began  to  spread  over  her  face.  From  her  soft, 
rather«wide  mouth  with  the  deep  dimple,  it  ran  up  to  the 
corners  of  her  hazel  eyes  in  ripples  of  mirth,  and  the  color 
ro'se  again  along  the  creamy  pillar  of  her  throat,  as 
if  from  some  happy  beating  of  the  heart,  to  mantle  rich 
carnation  in  her  cheeks. 

"Ah,  sure,  and  what  harm  is  it,  when  all's  said  and 
done?" 

"What  is  it  you're  meaning  now,  Moira?" 

With  rather  quicker  movements  than  before,  she  whisked 
the  cruet  from  the  open  receptacle  (which  was  diffusing 

37 


NEW  WINE 

strong  odors  of  seed  cake  and  apples  through  the  room) 
and  placed  it  over  the  hole  with  a  little  bang. 

"What  they  do  be  saying  about  me  and  Shane.'*  She 
spoke  with  the  nearest  approach  to  tartness  of  which  her 
sweet  voice  was  capable.  Instantly  repenting,  she  ex- 
claimed: "Sure,  you're  not  well  at  all,  to-day,  father, 
dear!  You'll  let  me  mix  you  a  drop  of  something  hot 
after  dinner,  won't  you,  now?  It's  killing  yourself  with 
the  cold  water  you  are."  Seeing  that  the  distress  on 
his  countenance  did  not  lighten,  she  added,  with  a  coax- 
ing note:  "Wasn't  it  always  understood  between  Shane 
and  me,  long  before  we  knew  the  meaning  of  anything?" 

Father  Blake  gave  another  of  those  groans  which  had 
punctuated  his  penitential  morning. 

"I  ought  to  have  foreseen  this,  Moira.  It's  not  the 
kind  of  match  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of." 

"Father!"  Her  eyes  flashed  again,  this  time  with  a 
blazing  reproach.  "Is  it  thinking  of  money  you  are? 
What  would  I  care  if  Shane  never  had  a  farthing  in  the 
world?  Wouldn't  I  rather  go  barefoot  and  beg  for  him, 
than  roll  in  a  carriage  by  the  side  of  the  other  fellows?" 

This  turn  of  the  discussion  was  so  unexpected  that 
once  more  Father  Blake  found  himself  speechless. 

"Sure  the  Da's  not  been  at  you,  has  he?"  pursued 
Moira,  a  gathering  anxiety  in  her  mien.  "I  know  my 
mother's  on  my  side."  Tears  began  to  tremble  on  her 
eyelashes  and  sound  in  her  voice  as  she  went  on :  "The 
Da  has  set  you  on  this.  It's  real  wicked  he's  been  this 
past  month.  He's  got  a  down  on  Shane  over  the  chest- 
nut filly.  And  it  wasn't  the  poor  boy's  fault  at  all.  How 
could  he  help  her  dragging  her  heels  at  the  fence?  Didn't 
she  drag  from  the  day  she  was  born?  Sure,  isn't  my 

38 


MOIRA 

Shane  too  good  a  gentleman  to  play  a  trick,  for  the  money, 
on  any  one?  And  that's  what  the  poor  Da  will  never 
understand.  I  little  thought  you'd  be  siding  with  the 
Da,  father,  dear.  But  let  me  tell  you" — her  pleading  ac- 
cents broke  into  passion — "let  me  tell  you  the  real  rea- 
son, father.  It's  because  Mister  Clery's  been  coming 
round  to  our  place — after  me — pretending  it's  for  the 
cattle.  And  him  with  his  sheep's  eyes,  oh!  And  poor 
Mrs.  Clerj  not  dead  a  twelvemonth!  I  don't  care  how 
much  money  he's  got.  I'd  fling  it  in  his  face !  I'd " 

"Hush,  hush!"  Father  Blake  interrupted.  He  had 
gathered  himself  together  now,  and  spoke  with  a  priestly 
authority  before  which  her  flame  sank.  "I  was  not  con- 
sidering you  at  all,  my  dear;  I  was  thinking  of  the  boy 
I  have  the  guardianship  of.  You've  said  it  yourself:  he's 
a  gentleman  born.  It  would  be  an  unequal  match."  The 
old  man  struck  the  table.  "An  unequal  match,  and  that 
I'll  never  consent  to.  It  would  not  be  for  your  happi- 
ness. No,  nor  for  his." 

Moira  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  all  her  palpitating 
youth  had  been  turned  to  stone.  Then  she  gave  a  twitch 
to  the  corner  of  the  table-cloth,  and  said  in  a  choked 
voice:  "I  wouldn't  like  to  be  doing  any  harm  to  him," 
and  fled  from  the  room. 

The  old  man  heard  the  front  door  bang,  and  the  next 
moment  he  saw  her  rush  across  the  window  like  one  hunted. 
Her  head  was  bent.  He  thought  of  the  sunshine  bright- 
ness it  had  brought  into  his  poor  room,  and  how  she  had 
bloomed  like  a  flower  as  she  spoke  of  her  lover. 

"It's  cruel  I've  been,"  he  said.  He  felt  bewildered  and 
again  propped  his  head  on  his  hand,  striving  to  collect  his 

39 


NEW  WINE 

thoughts.     "In  the  name  of  God,  what  is  to  be  done?     I 
don't  see  my  way  at  all." 

He  had  cold  bacon  for  dinner,  cold  water  to  drink,  and 
cold  thoughts  for  company ;  for  Mary  declared  that  if  he 
was  expecting  her  to  cook  fish  in  the  middle  of  the  wash- 
ing, his  "riverence"  would  have  to  look  out  for  another 
housekeeper,  one  with  two  pairs  of  hands. 


APRIL   TO   APRIL 

A  STERN  coast,  but  not  too  stern  to  guard  the  land  from 
such  seas  as  the  west  wind  raises  upon  the  Atlantic,  when 
comes  the  wild  weather.  Even  on  such  a  day  as  this,  these 
cliffs — white  rock  and  gray  shale — front  grimly  the  vast 
expanse,  as  an  enemy.  They  know  that  the  enemy, 
though  he  has,  under  the  April  skies,  clothed  himself  in 
shifting  glories — purple  blue,  shot  through  with  the  in- 
describable amber  green  of  sun-pierced  waters — is  bent 
on  mischief;  that  his  aim  is  ever  to  sap  the  foundation 
of  the  fortress ;  whether  he  come  panoplied  as  for  a  tour- 
nament, with  white  manes  flying,  and  splendor  and  flash 
of  color,  or  clad  in  black  armor  of  tempest  shrieking  to 
the  shock. 

Therefore  the  west  cliff  barrier,  standing  full  girt  for 
battle,  while  the  foe  beneath  has  decked  himself  as  for 
the  feast,  presents  strange  contrast — so  dark  and  cold 
and  unforgiving  above,  so  glowing,  gorgeous,  rich,  re- 
joicing, below  there,  with  myriad  play  and  vast  caresses. 

There  is,  half  way  down  towards  the  beach  of  Clenane, 
a  shelf  of  rock,  sun-warmed  to-day,  that  had  at  all  times 
been  a  favorite  haunt  of  Shane  and  Moira.  It  formed 
a  kind  of  natural  seat  overlooking  a  yawning  gap.  Far 
beneath,  the  surf  had  gnawed  away  deep  into  the  cliff, 
and  the  ledge  jutted  forward  over  the  wave  like  the  prow 

41 


NEW  WINE 

of  some  gigantic  vessel.  On  days  of  storm  the  spray 
would  shoot  right  up,  even  to  this  perch ;  and  little  Moira 
clinging  to  little  Shane,  had  passed  through  high  ecstasies 
in  the  enjoyment  of  the  fancied  peril,  just  out  of  its  reach. 

To-day  Moira  sat  there  alone,  her  hands  folded,  look- 
ing out  on  the  restless  beauty  that  spread  before  her. 
The  spring  wind  had  great  frolic  with  the  sea.  Cloud- 
shadows  swept  across  it:  purple  patches  over  the  living 
sapphire  and  emerald.  There  was  a  chaunt  of  rejoicing 
in  the  air,  and  a  wonderful  sea  smell,  vivifying,  as  it  were 
the  breath  of  a  more  potent  life  blown  from  some  vaster 
world. 

As  she  settled  down  upon  the  rock  perch,  the  storm  was 
in  her  soul.  She  had  a  tender  spirit,  and  it  was  bruised; 
and  where  she  loved  she  was  more  vulnerable  than  most, 
and  she  had  always  loved  Shane.  The  priest — he  was 
very  old,  and  he  rambled  as  old  men  will ;  and,  as  old  men 
will,  had  followed  the  bent  of  his  own  mind,  testily,  with- 
out considering  the  young — the  priest  had  struck  her, 
unconsciously,  where  a  blow  most  told.  For  Moira's 
love,  even  the  love  of  a  girl  for  her  only  conceivable  lover, 
had  in  it  that  maternal  yearning  which  entered  into  all  her 
affections,  and  overstrongly  into  this,  the  chief  of  them. 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  doing  any  harm  to  him " 

With  hands  locked  together,  she  repeated  the  words  again 
and  again,  out  of  a  misery  too  deep  for  tears.  It  was 
like  setting  a  tombstone  on  her  living  hope.  She  did  not 
question  Father  Blake's  wisdom;  acceptance  of  his  au- 
thority had  been  part  of  her  whole  existence,  and  he  spoke 
to  her  as  witli  the  voice  of  God. 

A  great  love  is  a  humble  love.  She  saw  herself  all  at 
once,  the  daughter  of  Blake  the  farmer,  in  her  true  posi- 

42 


APRIL  TO  APRIL 

tion  as  opposed  to  Shane,  gently  born,  one  of  the  real 
O'Conors. 

She  blushed  fiercely,  in  the  solitude  of  the  cliff,  with 
the  soft,  salty  wind  beating  against  her  face,  to  think 
how  she  had  misunderstood  Father  Blake's  meaning ;  how, 
for  a  moment,  she  had  actually  thought  it  was  because 
she  was  the  better  match  of  the  two  that  he  was  making 
objections.  .  .  .  As  if  the  paltry  money  could  have 
weighed  against  Shane's  fine  name  and  the  noble  blood! 
"Are  you  speaking  of  Mister  O'Conor?"  The  words  rang 
in  her  ears.  They  placed  her — oh,  on  what  a  poor,  com- 
mon plane,  compared  to  him !  How  had  she  come  to  have 
such  gross,  presuming  thoughts :  to  have  lost  her  sense  of 
the  right  values,  the  true  delicacies  of  their  respective 
positions?  "I'm  ashamed  of  my  life,'*  said  Moira  to 
herself.  And  then  she  was  aware  that  she  loved ;  passion- 
ately, desperately,  out  of  all  bounds ;  perhaps  altogether 
beyond  the  limits  set  to  the  heart  of  every  good  Catholic 
girl.  And  she  was  crushed  under  the  double  burden.  For 
when  love  and  shame  come  together  upon  the  pure  soul, 
they  bring  the  bewilderment  of  an  unmerited  hell. 

She  bowed  her  bright  head  upon  her  knees  over  her 
clenched  hands  ;  and  the  cry  of  the  tide,  its  dragging  with- 
drawal from  the  shingle,  sounded  confusedly  as  if  the 
great  sea  were  sobbing  aloud  the  grief  she  must  ever  keep 
dumb. 

"What,  in  the  name  of  God,  are  you  doing?'* 

It  was  Shane  who  hailed  her  from  the  foot  of  the  rough 

path  that  led  up  to  the  ledge.      She  sprang  to  her  feet, 

steadying  herself  against  the  jutting  rock.      She  was  all 

in  a  confusion  and  could  only  look  at  him  piteously,  as 

43 


NEW  WINE 

with  quick  leaps  he  drew  close  to  her.  The  retriever  at 
his  heel  thrust  his  damp  muzzle  inquiringly  against  her 
knee,  sniffed  and  dropped  his  tail.  Then  he  flung  him- 
self flat  on  the  ground,  his  nose  between  his  paws,  with 
an  air  of  utmost  depression;  the  brown,  watchful  eyes 
glinting  from  one  to  the  other. 

Shane  repeated  his  question,  staring  at  her  with  con- 
siderable surprise  and  some  anger  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"What,  in,  the  name  of  God,  are  you  doing  here?"  It 
comes  naturally  to  the  Irish  tongue  to  call  upon  the  Un- 
seen Power;  and  there  is  no  irreverence  in  this  familiarity, 
but  rather  a  sense  of  the  encompassing  Presence.  "  'I'm 
off  to  help  Mary  down  beyond,  at  the  priest's  house/  says 
you,  and  'Won't  this  make  the  fine  dish  for  my  uncle's 
dinner?*  And  it's  away  with  you,  without  so  much  as 
listening  to  a  word  I'd  be  telling  you,  when  it's  the  match 
of  my  fish,  the  second  best  of  the  catch,  old  Mary  had  the 
cooking  of  already.  And  I  dripping  wet,  having  to  go 
and  change  my  clothes,  with  the  doctor's  warning  in  my 
ears.  'You'll  be  getting  it  on  your  chubes,9  says  he." 
Shane  paused  to  laugh;  and  then  indignation  returned. 
"I  wasn't  five  minutes,  and  what  do  I  see  when  I  get  down 
to  his  reverence's,  but  my  two  beautiful  fish  lying  together 
in  a  pail  of  water  outside  the  kitchen  door,  and  Mary, 
black  in  the  face,  wrestling  with  hot  irons,  and  his  rever- 
ence sitting  by  his  lone,  and  'Moira's  off  to  the  shore,' 
says  he.  What  took  you,  Moira? — Moira!" 

His  tone  suddenly  altered.  He  bent  to  look  at  her 
averted  face:  the  flicker  of  mirthful  wrath  vanished  from 
his  own. 

"Moira,  what  ails  you?  What's  come  over  you  at  all?" 
She  straightened  herself,  drew  a  long  breath,  and  turned 

44 


APRIL  TO  APRIL 

to  fix  him,  trying  to  smile  and  speak  naturally,  but  fail- 
ing. "What  is  it?"  he  urged.  There  was  alarm  now, 
in  his  accents.  "You  look  at  me  the  way  your  father's 
heifers  do  when  they  take  the  calves  from  them."  He 
put  out  his  hand  and  caught  her  to  him.  "Moira,  my 
darling  girl!'* 

But  she  thrust  him  from  her  with  vigorous  young  arms 
that  sent  him  back  against  the  rock. 

"You've  no  call  to  lay  hold  of  me  that  way — Mr. 
O'Conor." 

With  which  astounding  words  she  smoothed  her  rough- 
ened hair — the  instinctive  gesture  of  the  woman  gathering 
her  dignity,  all  the  world  over — squared  her  shoulders  and 
proceeded  deliberately  down  the  path  towards  the  land. 
For  some  dozen  paces  she  went  alone,  and  then  he  over- 
took her  and  barred  the  way.  His  face  was  pale  under 
its  smooth  tan ;  his  eyes  blazed. 

"I'll  get  to  the  bottom  of  this !"  he  cried,  with  con- 
tained fury.  And  then,  before  she  could  reply,  went  on: 
"Your  father's  got  his  way,  I  take  it.  It's  the  second 
Mrs.  Clery  he  wants  to  make  of  you.  Shane  O'Conor's 
no  match  for  the  rich  Miss  Blake.  And  it's  the  obedient 
daughter  you  are.  You've  just  been  settling  it  up  with 
his  reverence,  and  it  would  not  do  for  a  good,  pious  girl 
to  be  going  against  the  will  of  her  parents !" 

His  lip  trembled  over  a  sneer;  and  all  at  once,  like  a 
torrent  breaking  loose,  his  passion  escaped  him: — 

"And  if  that's  the  way  with  you,  I  warn  you  fair,  Moira, 
I'll  break  that  fellow  in  pieces  before  your  eyes,  as  I  break 
this  bit  of  stone."  He  caught  up  a  long  splinter  of  shale, 
crushed  it  between  his  fingers,  and  flung  the  fragments 
from  him.  It  was  an  action  indescribably  expressive. 

45 


NEW  WINE 

And  it  was  with  an  equally  fierce  gesture  that  he  flung 
out  both  his  hands  and  shook  them  under  her  eyes.  "And 
I'd  break  any  man  that  dared  come  betwixt  you  and  me. 
You  and  me !  You  know  very  well  it  was  always  you  and 
me.  You  know  that  I  was  only  waiting  till  it  was  right 
for  me  to  talk  to  you.  You  know  that  I  never  looked  at 
any  other  girl,  up  or  down,  rich  or  poor.  And  there's 
many  have  smiled  on  me,  Moira." 

The  boy's  earnestness — he  was  little  more  than  a  boy, 
for  all  his  twenty-three  years — deprived  this  speech  of  the 
least  fatuity:  it  rang  with  a  kind  of  pathos  out  of  the 
clangor  of  his  reproach. 

"And  do  you  think  I'd  stand  aside  and  look  on  while 
that  old  fellow  with  his  greasy  bank-book,  and  his  herds 
and  his  fine  stone  house,  puts  out  a  fat  hand  to  try  and 
steal  my  flower,  damn  him!  My  lily  that's  in  its  bud; 
that  has  got  to  bloom  for  me.  For  me,  for  me  only !" 

He  istruck  his  breast  twice,  and  then  once  more  made  a 
gesture  of  wild  arms  towards  her.  But  the  storm  had 
fallen;  his  voice  had  sunk  from  its  blast  of  anger  to  a 
husky  tenderness. 

It  is  not  easy  to  stand  upon  a  cruel  peak  of  renuncia- 
tion, when  you're  only  seventeen  and  the  man  you  love 
wants  to  gather  you  to  his  heart.  And  Moira  was  not 
of  the  stuff  of  which  such  heroines  are  made.  There  was 
too  much  pitifulness  in  her  spirit  for  that ;  it  was  already 
wrung  to  see  that  he  was  suffering  and  to  know  that  it 
was  through  her.  She  let  herself  fall  into  his  outstretched 
arms,  with  a  movement  as  soft  and  easy  as  that  of  a  bird 
settling  on  its  nest. 

Love  had  been  unconscious  between  them,  growing 
with  their  growth.  They  had  shared  everything  that 

46 


APRIL  TO  APRIL 

could  be  shared,  and  no  hour  had  ever  been  perfect  to 
either  without  the  memory  or  the  presence  of  the  other. 
Now  the  ardor  of  love,  the  strange  mystery  which  springs 
between  man  and  maid,  had  been  struck  into  conscious  life 
as  by  a  lightning  flash,  the  flash  that  showed  the  chasm 
of  the  possible  separation.  They  clung,  as  innocent  of 
evil  one  as  the  other;  as  strong  in  the  natural,  healthy 
intensity  of  their  untried  ardors,  as  whole-heartedly  one 
with  each  other. 

Shane  pressed  his  lips  on  that  smooth,  fresh  cheek  that 
they  had  so  often  touched  before;  but  it  was  the  first 
lover's  kiss.  Her  tears  ran  down  into  his  lips  and  turned 
the  strength  of  his  soul  to  fire  for  sheer  love  and  rever- 
ence of  her,  delight  in  her,  determination  to  shelter  her 
henceforth  from  everything  and  every  one. 

"Alanna !     Asthore  !     Mavourneen !"  he  murmured. 

She  kissed  him  back  with  guileless  fervor.  These  chil- 
dren, son  and  daughter  of  a  desolate,  remote,  infinitely 
romantic  land,  were  as  much  part  of  the  nature  about 
them  as  the  wild  birds  that  nested  in  the  crags,  or  the 
spiced  golden  gorse  bushes  that  made  little  glories  in  the 
barren  soil.  They  had  been  nurtured  on  the  same  wide 
airs,  ripened  by  the  same  mild  temperate  suns ;  the  salt 
had  sweetened  their  blood ;  the  freedom  and  lonely  poetry 
of  their  surroundings  had  entered  into  their  souls.  There 
was  no  more  self-consciousness  in  their  coming  together 
than  there  would  have  been  in  the  mating  of  the  gulls. 

Presently,  as  they  remembered  time,  they  went  down 
the  narrow  path,  reluctantly,  upon  the  homeward  way. 
His  arm  was  cast  about  her  shoulder.  The  sweetness  of 
holding  her  was  not  a  thing  to  be  given  up  a  second  sooner 

47 


NEW  WINE 

than  necessary.  The  radiance  that  was  on  Moira's  face 
was  a  lovely  blend  of  smiles  and  unshed  tears. 

Leprechaun,  who  had  regarded  the  proceedings  with 
wise,  velvet  eyes,  now  broke  into  hilarious  barkings,  and 
dashed  on  ahead  as  if  his  dog  soul  had  comprehended  (as 
perhaps,  indeed,  it  had)  the  happy  conclusion  of  the  per- 
plexed hour. 

"And  now,"  said  Shane  suddenly,  "you'll  be  telling  me, 
if  you  please,  the  meaning  of  that  'Mister  O'Conor.' '" 

The  smile  broadened  on  her  lips.  She  could  afford  to 
laugh  now  at  Father  Blake's  misplaced  wisdom  ancT  her 
own  acceptance  of  it. 

"And  indeed  it  was  a  strange  notion  my  poor  good  un- 
cle got  into  his  head.  He  thought  it  was  the  bad  mar- 
riage you'd  be  making." 

"Is  it  me?  Ah,  none  of  your  blarneying,  Moira!  It's 
you  he  was  meaning." 

"It  was  not."  She  drew  back  a  little  to  look  at  him ; 
and  laughter  brimmed  in  her  face.  "Mister  O'Conor!" 

"Moira !" 

"Mister  O'Conor — own  grandson  to  Lord  Kilmore — • 
and  Moira  Blake,  the  farmer's  daughter.  And,  faith, 
when  I  put  it  that  way,  his  reverence  wasn't  so  far 
wrong." 

"Ah,  the  poor  old  man,  it's  going  dotty  he  is." 

Instantly  the  compassionate  mother-look  came  back 
into  the  girl's  eyes,  and  laughter  fled  from  her  face. 

"He's  very  weakly,  God  help  him!  Sure  you  mustn't 
be  talking  that  way.  Isn't  it  only  because  he  wants  to 
do  the  best  for  yourself?" 

"Well— and  isn't  this  the  best?" 

He  caught  her  to  him  again.  What  could  Moira  say, 

48 


APRIL  TO  APRIL 

but  that  it  was  the  best,  the  only  possible  thing,  the  most 
blessed  arrangement  on  earth? 

The  first  human  habitation  in  sight  was  that  of  Biddy 
M'Gaw — a  hovel  between  the  beach  and  Clenane,  cleaving 
to  the  flank  of  the  rock  like  some  indescribable  fungus. 
The  blue  turf-smoke  was  filtering  sideways  from  a  broken 
chimney  pot,  set  like  a  tipsy  man's  hat  askew  on  the 
moldering  thatch. 

The  crone  was  sitting  on  her  doorstep;  and  the  space 
visible  of  the  one  room  behind  her  was  grimed  to  a  velvet 
blackness.  Leprechaun,  halting  in  his  looping  race  home- 
ward, approached  the  huddled  figure  with  stalking  steps, 
and  gingerly  sniffed.  The  old  woman  turned  her  head 
at  that,  and  without  noticing  the  dog,  fixed  the  advanc- 
ing figures. 

"Ah,  poor  old  Biddy,"  cried  Moira  remorsefully. 
"There,  now,  if  I  didn't  forget  to  cook  the  fish  and  bring 
it  to  her,  as  Father  Blake  told  me !" 

They  had,  decorously,  separated.  Clenane  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  spectacle  of  Moira  and  Shane  side  by  side; 
nevertheless,  the  widow  M'Gaw,  clapping  her  hands  to- 
gether, broke  into  a  psean : — 

"May  the  Lord  be  blessed  for  all  his  mercies,  that  I 
should  live  to  see  the  day!  Glory  be  to  God,  you'll  be 
the  grandest  couple  that  ever  trod  the  earth  of  Clare,  and 
of  Galway  either!  Isn't  she  the  darling,  girl,  Masther 
Shane,  your  Honor?  And  isn't  he  the  rale  O'Conor, 
Moira  asthore?  And  isn't  it  the  wonderful  day  for  Biddy 
M'Gaw  and  her  your  Da*s  own  cousin  ?  A  hundred  thou- 
sand blessings  on  you  both,  for  the  foinest,  loveliest  pair 
with  the  sun  shining  on  you,  and  shining  out  of  you,  so 

49 


NEW  WINE 

that  if  I  was  blind  this  minute,  it's  dazzling  my  old  eyes 
you'd  be!" 

She  put  up  that  dirt-encrusted  skeleton  hand  of  hers 
to  her  white  head,  as  she  spoke,  and  then,  in  a  gesture 
with  which  they  were  singularly  familiar,  extended  it 
towards  them. 

"Bring  the  luck  on  yourself,  Masther  Shane,  me  lovely 
boy,  by  helping  the  poor.  It's  hungry  and  cold  I've  gone 
this  day,  Moira  darling,  and  may  the  Lord  and  His  Holy 
Mother  bless  you  for  the  sweet  looks  of  you !" 

They  were  both  blushing  like  school  children  caught  in 
an  orchard;  but  in  the  young  man's  confusion  there  was 
something  of  the  conqueror's  pride.  He  thrust  his  hand 
in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  two  or  three  loose  coins,  the 
last  bonus  for  his  clever  riding  of  a  willful  mare.  It  was 
light  come,  light  go,  with  these  earnings  of  his :  and  there 
was  a  gold  piece  shining  among  the  silver.  Moira  looked 
a  little  shocked  when  he  selected  it  and  put  it  into  the 
brown  hollow  of  that  palm.  Old  Biddy  herself  was  struck 
speechless  for  a  trembling  second.  Then  her  fingers 
closed  tightly,  and  a  stream  of  rapture  and  encomium 
poured  from  her  lips  which  outdid  her  former  ecstasy. 

"It'll  be  given  back  to  you!  Didn't  the  Lord  say  it 
with  His  own  blessed  lips,  'pressed  down  and  flowing 
over'?  Isn't  it  lapped  in  gold  you'll  be?"  Her  voice  rose 
to  a  screech.  The  rocking  with  which  she  excited  her- 
self to  eloquence,  after  the  manner  of  her  class,  became 
frenzied.  The  light  of  insanity  kindled  in  those  bleared 
orbs  where  vision  seemed  almost  extinguished.  "You'll 
have  it  all.  I  see  the  crown  on  your  head,  this  moment ! 
All  the  honors  and  the  grandeurs,  the  titles  and  the  land 
— you'll  have  them  all  yet,  I  tell  you.  Glory  be  to  God !" 

SO 


APRIL  TO  APRIL 

Frightened,  Moira  put  her  arm  on  Shane's  sleeve  and 
drew  him  away.  The  sibyl  stopped  suddenly,  her  inspira- 
tion extinguished. 

But  upon  a  compassionate  afterthought,  Moira  paused 
and  came  back. 

"You've  given  us  the  first  blessing,  Biddy,  dear,  and 
we  shan't  forget  it  to  you." 

So  saying,  she  stooped  and  kissed  the  mumbling  mask 
that  had  once  been  a  human  countenance.  Biddy  was 
quite  silent  till  the  two  tall,  strong,  young  figures  had 
swung  out  of  sight.  Then  she  looked  down  on  the  gold; 
the  slow,  difficult  tears  of  such  extreme  eld  gathered  in 
her  dim  eyes. 

"I  think  more  of  that  than  I  do  of  the  money,"  she 
muttered  to  herself.  Then,  suddenly,  balling  the  hand 
that  still  clutched  the  sovereign,  she  shook  it  fiercely  in 
the  direction  in  which  the  lovers  had  disappeared.  "God's 
curse  on  him  if  he's  not  true  to  her !" 


VI 


POINTS    OF    VIEW 

CLENANE  village,  lost  as  it  is  between  the  unprofitable 
land  and  the  waste  Atlantic,  might  seem  to  the  casual 
stranger  the  spot  on  earth  most  likely  to  hold  an  ineffable 
dullness.  But  that  stranger  would  little  know  Ireland. 
Given  three  hovels,  a  mile  of  road,  and — say — the  lodge 
of  a  great  estate,  and  you  will  have  a  background  for  the 
play  of  all  the  passions  that  can  convulse  the  human  heart. 

All  is  drama  to  the  Keltic  soul.  The  Irish  take  the 
common  events  of  life  with  an  antique  intensity.  The 
dead  are  waked  with  feasting  and  keened  to  their  graves 
with  tearing  of  hair  and  an  outflung  abandonment  of 
gesture  that  bring  you  back  to  the  Greek  tragedy.  And 
the  birth-chamber  will  be  crowded  with  well-wishers,  all 
flocking  to  perform  mysterious  rites,  to  cast  beneficent 
spells  and  exorcise  potential  evils,  after  customs  the  tra- 
dition of  which  is  lost  in  the  dark  ages.  A  man  will  take 
another's  life  for  some  reason  which,  to  a  Saxon,  would 
seem  scarce  sufficient  for  a  word  of  remonstrance.  The 
passion  of  the  Kelt  will  fire  at  a  slight  that  exists  only  in 
his  own  imagination,  as  the  nervous  horse  swerves  at  a 
shadow.  A  woman  will  curse  her  neighbor  for  a  splash  of 
soapy  water,  and  call  down  vengeance  in  language  that 
would  befit  Medea  over  her  murdered  children. 

And  whenever  are  placed  in  juxtaposition  poverty  and 
riches,  the  peasant  and  the  landlord,  there  will  brood  the 

52 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

old  wrongs,  fester  the  old  sores.  Every  corner  of  agra- 
rian Ireland  is  like  a  cave  of  Eolus  where  the  winds  mut- 
ter, from  which  any  moment  the  squall  may  spring,  threat- 
ening destruction. 

Clenane  possessed  the  temperament  of  its  kind.  It 
had  had,  quite  recently,  an  exciting  murder;  for  a  mis- 
directed shot  from  behind  a  stone  wall  had  hit  the  driver 
of  a  car  instead  of  the  constable  whom  he  happened  to 
be  conveying.  Public  opinion  was  agreeably  divided  as 
to  whether  the  fellow  had  not  deserved  it,  for  lending  him- 
self to  the  convenience  of  such  traitors ;  or  whether  it 
wasn't  a  cruel  shame  for  the  constabulary  to  be  expos- 
ing the  poor  innocent  lads  to  the  danger  of  losing  their 
lives  'that  way.'  All  were  united,  however,  upon  the  main 
issue:  the  duty  of  screening  the  criminal.  It  was  heartily 
conceded  that  it  was  bad  enough  for  the  creature  to  have 
bungled  his  shot  without  having  to  be  tried  for  his  mis- 
take. But  thrills  in  connection  with  this  incident  were 
beginning  to  die  down,  and  the  news  that  Shane  O'Conor 
had  "settled  it  up"  with  Moira  Blake  was  received  with 
all  the  enthusiasm  of  a  new  emotion.  Rumor  ran  like 
wildfire  from  heart  to  hearth :  "His  riverence  was  wild." 
— "She's  no  match  for  an  O'Conor.  Hadn't  ould  Mary 
heard  him  say  those  same  words  with  her  own  ears?  'I'll 
not  per-mitt  it,'  he  says,  with  the  tears  hopping  off  the 
white  face  of  him.  And  him  screeching  bad  with  the  gout 
that  same  minute :  as  signs  on  it — wasn't  the  doctor's 
horse  tethered  at  me  own  back  gate  an  hour  or  more, 
and  him  eating  the  loveliest  cabbage  you  ever  saw,  while 
the  doctor  was  within,  examining  his  holy  foot." — "Not 
at  all,  not  at  all.  It's  the  wrong  end  of  the  story  you've 
got  altogether,  woman.  It's  Dan  Blake,  up  yonder,  is 

53 


NEW  WINE 

lepping  maid.  He  says  he'll  skelp  her  alive  if  she  looks 
the  same  side  of  the  road  again  as  Master  Shane.  Sure 
you  know  it's  rale  wicked  he's  got,  since  Clery  of  Kipogue 
has  come  round  with  his  courting  eye,  and  herself  not 
ten  months  under  the  sod.  Blake's  head  is  turned  on 
him  altogether,  with  the  grandeur  his  daughter  would  be 
having  with  all  the  wealth  Clery's  gathered  by  hook  or 
by  crook.  Sure,  it's  by  hoof  and  by  crook  I  ought  to 
say;  and  him  with  all  them  droves  and  flocks.  'Clery's 
a  warm  man,  Mrs.  Mullooley,'  says  Mr.  Blake  to  myself, 
no  later  than  last  week,  when  I  went  up  for  a  sup  of  but- 
termilk, 'and  it'll  be  driving  a  motor  car  he'll  be  before 
we  know  where  we  are.' '  — "Huthen  set  him  up !  Is  it 
thinking  of  motor  cars  he  is  when  it's  a  rale  O'Conor 
he  could  be  calling  son-in-law?" — "Ah,  God  bless  us,  don't 
be  talking  that  away,  woman  dear,  haven't  I  got  the  whole 
story  from  ould  Mary  herself?  It's  his  riverence  that 
has  got  the  true  hould  of  the  matter.  'An  O'Conor  and 
a  Blake,'  says  he,  'and  if  she  is  my  own  great-niece  itself,* 
says  he,  'and  if  it's  break  her  heart  for  him  she  will,  in 
the  name  of  God,'  he  says,  'I've  got  to  follcy  me  con- 
science,' he  says.  'And  if  it  was  on  me  death-bed  and  the 
hoily  oils  on  me  palms  and  the  soles  of  me  feet,  I  couldn't 
say  different.  It's  an  unequal  match,'  he  says,  'and  I  for- 
bid it.'  " 

"And  he  may  forbid  it!"  Young  Mrs.  Dinny  Doyle, 
newcomer  to  Clenane  from  the  stranger  county  of  Wex- 
ford,  and  as  yet  kept  at  a  considerable  distance  by  the 
rest  of  the  village,  thrust  a  towsled  red  head  over  the  in- 
secure stone  barrier  that  divided  her  residence  from  the 
Mullooley  mansion.  "Let  him  forbid  it.  What's  to  hin- 

54 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

der  my  brave  Shane  from  carrying  her  off  and  getting 
wed  in  spite  of  his  riverence  and  the  Da  either?" 

Mrs.  Mullooley  turned  in  great  majesty  upon  the 
speaker. 

"Sure  you're  foreign  to  the  place,  Mrs.  Doyle,  and 
we're  all  ready  to  make  allowances  for  you;  but  I  tell 
you  in  kindness  to  yourself,  it  wouldn't  do  at  all  for  you 
to  be  dropping  names  that  familiar  in  your  speech,  and 
making  free  behind  his  back  with  a  gentleman  like  Mister 
O'Conor.  If  it's  Master  Shane  he  is  to  us,  it's  because 
he's  grown  up  among  us.  But  it's  Mister  O'Conor  he  is 
to  strangers  like  yourself — and  him  the  gentleman  born." 

Mrs.  Doyle  displayed  prominent  teeth  and  snapped  her 
fingers. 

"Ye'll  have  me  killed  with  the  laughing  the  way  yez 
ould  ones  be  going  on !"  she  cried.  "Maybe  I  know  as 
much  about  Master  Shane  as  you  do  yourself — and  more. 
For  isn't  he  as  good  as  a  twin  brother  to  my  own  Dinny, 
and  both  of  them  away  this  minute,  chasing  the  colts  on 
Dunvara  Hill?  Let  the  one  ould  Blake  or  the  other  carry 
on  as  they  like.  The  day's  long  gone  by  when  priest  or 
parent  'ud  be  able  to  keep  two  fine  young  creatures  apart, 
and  they  loving  each  other  as  do  Moira  and — Shane. 
There's  for  you  now !" 

She  snapped  her  fingers  again,  and  whisked  back  into 
her  cottage,  leaving  the  two  elder  ladies  momentarily 
stupefied  with  her  audacity. 

"Well,  that  one!"  ejaculated  the  widow  Joyce  at  last. 
"Where  does  she  come  from  at  all?  Sure  it's  the  hathen 
she  is !" 

"People  do  be  having  very  quare  talk  nowadays," 
opined  her  companion  darkly. 

55 


NEW  WINE 

Meanwhile  there  was  perhaps  more  truth  in  the  pro- 
nouncement of  these  clattering  tongues  than  is  usual  when 
the  Irish  imagination  gets  to  work.  If  "wild"  was  a  some- 
what poetic  interpretation  of  Father  Blake's  agonizedly 
conscientious  opposition  to  the  alliance,  "lepping  mad" 
Very  nearly  approximated  to  the  attitude  taken  by  Moira's 
father. 

He  was  a  man  of  dark  moods,  and  unforgiving.  He 
had  long  cherished  a  grudge  against  Shane  over  the 
question  of  a  colt  which  the  young  man  had  failed  to  sell 
for  him.  He  chose  to  think  that  Shane  had  played  him 
false.  Brooding  over  this  grievance  night  after  night, 
with  his  stockinged  feet  stretched  to  the  turf  fire  and  his 
little  black  pipe  hanging  between  his  lips,  it  had  grown 
to  abnormal  proportions. 

The  scowling  silence  with  which  he  greeted  the  lad's 
gay  visits  to  the  farm,  became  more  and  more  pronounced. 
Yet,  up  to  the  moment  of  the  rich  grazier's  appearance 
on  the  horizon  as  a  suitor  for  Moira,  he  had  not  given  ut- 
terance to  his  feelings.  One  of  the  many  anomalies  of 
the  race  is  the  furtiveness  that  lurks  beneath  a  seeming 
expansiveness ;  the  long  secret  cherishing  of  a  resentment 
before  its  explosion.  Your  Irishman  will  turn  the  stone 
in  his  pocket  many  and  many  a  time  before  flinging  it. 
And  Dan  Blake  bided  his  opportunity. 

When  it  came  it  was  as  the  crash  of  a  thunderbolt. 

"Is  it  give  my  only  daughter  to  an  O'Conor?  Hand 
her  over  to  one  of  that  traithorous  brood?  Faith,  and 
I'd  rather  see  her  in  her  coffin.  I  would  that!  Hould 
your  tongue,  Biddy."  Mrs.  Blake  was  generally  treated 
with  great  respect  by  her  husband,  as  having  brought  him 
a  considerable  fortune  and  as  belonging  to  a  good  family ; 

56 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

but  in  this  instance  he  assumed  the  full  Keltic  weight  of 
marital  authority.  ,He  was  "the  Master,"  and  he  would 
let  her  know  it.  "There  isn't  one  of  them  but  'ud  go  back 
on  a  friend.  Sure,  isn't  Shane  O'Conor  a  true  son  of 
the  renegade?  Isn't  it  the  blood  that's  in  him,  the  blood 
of  the  renegade?  Haven't  I  taken  his  measure  the  day  he 
leapt  my  chestnut  filly  for  me — and  the  more  fool  me  for 
trusting  one  of  them !  Sure  I  might  have  known  it's  not 
in  an  O'Conor  to  go  straight.  What's  that  ye're  saying? 
'It's  never  going  over  that  ould  story  I  am?'  Well,  and 

it  is,  then!     What  had  he  got  to  gain  by  it?     Ah " 

Rage  was  expressed  in  the  long-drawn  out  exclamation : 
"How'd  I  know,  woman?  How'd  an  honest  man  like  my- 
self bring  his  mind  to  guess  at  the  paltriness  of  the  sum 
that  would  timpt  an  O'Conor  to  sell  his  best  frind?  'All 
I  know  is,'  says  I  to  him  that  morning,  as  innocent  as  the 
baptized  babe:  'Ye'll  not  be  looking  for  any  compinsation 
for  riding  me  bit  of  a  filly,  Master  Shane — considering 
the  way  you  took  the  ould  gray  over  the  walls  with  the 
hunt  last  month?'  says  I.  'God  bless  us,  no,  Mr.  Blake!' 
he  makes  answer.  'Don't  I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever 
pay' — and  him  with  his  smiling  face  and  his  coaxing  voice. 
I  might  have  known  he  was  up  to  mischief,  when  I  saw  him 
in  collogue  with  the  Captin  that  very  evening.  And  next 
day,  if  the  Captin's  horse  wasn't  ridden  and  sold  by  him, 
and  mine  given  the  go-by,  may  the  devil  have  me  soul!" 
Mrs.  Blake,  whose  comely  countenance  had  gone  white 
and  red  alternately  during  this  tirade,  stood,  the  corner  of 
her  apron  uplifted  and  mouth  open  for  speech  when  her 
lord's  vehemence  should  permit  the  inserting  of  a  word. 
As  he  now  struck  the  table  and  choked  upon  his  wrath, 
she  glanced  sideways  at  Moira,  who  sat  very  still  in  a  cor- 

57 


NEW  WINE 

ner,  with  wide  eyes,  into  which  tears  kept  rising  and  wan- 
ing, and  took  her  opportunity. 

"I'm  sure,  didn't  Master  Shane  ride  your  own  baste 
first,  and  do  his  level  best  for  it?  And  sure  it  wasn't  his 
fault  that  the  crature  tipped  the  stone  at  every  lep  the 
way  she  did.  Wasn't  it  the  thrick  that  was  on  her  ever 
since  the  day  she  was  born?  And  didn't  you  have  to  sell 
her  into  Galway  Town  for  a  tradesman's  cart  at  the  long 
end  of  it,  since  the  docthor  himself  —  and  there's  no  better 
horsy  man  in  the  barony  than  the  docthor,  and  you  know 
that  for  all  your  gobbing  at  me  as  if  it  was  a  herring  bone 
you'd  swallowed,  that  strained  in  the  face  —  the  docthor 
says  to  you,  'You'll  never  make  a  lepper  out  of  that  one,' 
he  says,  'with  the  drop  she's  got  in  the  hind  quar- 


Here  Mr.  Blake  recovered  his  breath  and  expended  it 
in  a  roar. 

"Sthrained  in  the  face,  is  it?  It's  the  wonder  you 
haven't  talked  it  off  me,  the  pair  of  you  !  Isn't  it  a  known 
truth  from  one  end  of  the  barony  to  the  other  that  that 
same  Shane  O'Conor  can  do  what  he  likes  with  any  horse 
the  moment  he  gets  it  between  his  legs?  And  didn't  he 
have  the  pull  on  her  at  the  very  first  lep?  Sure,  didn't 
I  see  it?" 

Moira,  most  unfairly  accused  of  garrulity,  got  up  from 
her  three-legged  stool,  and  came  slowly  up  to  her  father. 
Her  lips  were  quivering.  The  gaze  she  fixed  upon  him 
was  passionately  angry. 

"There's  two  things  I've  got  to  let  you  know,  Da,"  she 
said,  "and  the  one  is  that  those  that  accuse  Shane  O'Conor 
of  dirty  thoughts  and  dirty  deeds,  have  got  the  black 
guilt  of  them  upon  their  own  minds.  And  when  they 

58 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

think  they're  sullying  him,  it's  themselves  they  harm.  And 
the  second  thing  is  that  I'd  rather  be  carried  out  of  this 
place  feet  foremost  than  marry  Mr.  Clery,  for  all  the 
match  is  so  much  to  your  liking." 

Here  she  flung  her  apron  over  her  head  and  went  swiftly 
from  the  kitchen. 

If  one  of  the  doves  that  flitted  and  cooed  about  his 
stable  yard  had  suddenly  flown  into  his  face,  the  farmer 
could  not  have  been  more  astounded.  And  it  may  be 
said  that  Mrs.  Blake  shared  the  emotion.  Moira,  the  good 
child  who  had  never  in  all  their  recollection  given  her  par- 
ents a  cross  look,  much  less  an  undutiful  word ;  Moira, 
the  creature  with  the  soft  ways  of  pity  so  that  she  could 
not  endure  to  hear  a  cat  chided  or  bring  herself  to  kill 
a  mouse ;  Moira  to  "up  and  fly  at  her  father  that  way !" 

"Ye've  druv  her  to  it,  Blake,"  said  the  wife  at  last,  in 
discomposed  accents,  "and  I'm  of  the  same  opinion  as 
she  is  herself,  and  so  I  tell  you  straight.  And  if  it's  think- 
ing of  getting  rid  of  her  cheap  you  are,  with  old  Clery, 
it's  out  of  your  calculation  you'll  find  yourself.  For  Mas- 
ter Shane  'ud  take  her  without  a  farthing,  and  thank  you. 
And  that's  me  darling  boy,  as  he  lives  and  breathes.  And 
he  gentry  in  every  little  bit  of  him,  from  the  crown  of 
his  lovely  dark  curls  to  the  sole  of  his  noble  foot — 
wouldn't  it  be  a  match  for  her,  an  O'Conor  of  the  ould 
stock,  that  you'd  be  dreamin'  of  in  the  sweetness  of  slum- 
ber, and  wake  to  cry  for?  What  if  they'd  never  more 
than  a  sup  of  milk  and  the  bite  of  a  potato  between 
them?" 

"Sure,  he'll  have  to  give  in,"  she  said  to  Moira,  when 
later  she  found  her  weeping  in  the  dim,  pleasant  coolness 

59 


NEW  WINE 

of  the  dairy.  "But  you'd  no  call  to  be  speaking  to  your 
Da  like  that." 

"I  don't  know  what  came  over  me,"  admitted  the  girl. 
"My  heart  rose  in  me,  and  then  it  burst  out." 

Mrs.  Blake  surveyed  her  daughter  with  an  odd  mixture 
of  compassion  and  disapproval: — 

"It'll  be  the  love  you've  got  for  the  boy,  I  take  it,"  she 
remarked  at  length,  in  rather  shocked  tones. 

Such  experience  had  never  come  her  own  decent,  or- 
derly way.  Her  marriage  had  been  made  up  by  Father 
Blake  himself;  and  she'd  taken  Daniel  "on  the  strength 
of  his  reverence's  good  word,  before  she  had  as  much  as 
seen  him  three  times."  She  considered  the  sacrament  of 
matrimony  much  as  she  considered  all  the  other  sacra- 
ments that  had  been  administered  to  her,  that  is  to  say,  as 
a  seal  set  upon  a  certain  stage  of  life,  like  a  milestone  on 
a  highway. — You  were  born,  and  you  were  baptized.  You 
came  to  the  age  of  reason  and  you  confessed  your  sins. 
You  advanced  in  wisdom,  and  you  "went  before  the  altar." 
You  approached  the  years  when  you  might  have  to  face 
the  dangers  of  the  world,  and  you  were  confirmed.  You 
were  old  enough  to  be  given  in  marriage:  the  Church  was 
ready  with  the  sacrament  of  matrimony.  That  marriage 
should  be  a  consecration  of  the  most  powerful  of  all  ex- 
periences; that  it  was  to  sanctify  and  spiritualize  the 
most  elemental  of  all  emotions ;  that  the  wild,  tender, 
crazy,  exquisite  moments  known  only  to  lovers  were  to 
culminate  and  be  made  blessed  by  the  vow  spoken  at  the 
altar,  was  a  view  of  life  that  had  never  dawned  on  Mrs. 
Blake. 

Heartily  as  she  approved  of  Shane  for  her  daughter, 

60 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

she  felt  estranged  and  bewildered  by  this  glimpse  of  her 
sentiment  for  him. 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  so  much  discussion  was  rid- 
ing towards  Clenane,  bareback,  on  a  rough,  skittish  colt, 
driving  before  him  half  a  dozen  other  wild  creatures  of  a 
like  description.  To  each  jagged  mane  was  attached  a 
blue  rag  which  marked  the  property  of  farmer  Daly,  next 
in  the  district  to  Dan  Blake  in  wealth  and  importance. 

The  twilight  was  falling  over  the  land  from  a  sky  of 
indescribable  tints ;  tints  that  recalled  the  April  flowers, 
crocus  yellows  and  primroses,  and  greens  like  the  young 
lilac  leaves,  all  blooming  on  a  firmament  gray-blue  as 
the  wood  violet.  Faint  mists  were  rising  over  the  boggy 
hollows.  The  moors  spread  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see, 
broken  only  by  rock  or  bush.  The  mountains  of  Clare 
lay  plum-purple,  the  only  deep  note  in  all  the  shadowiness. 

Shane  was  singing  to  the  broken  paces  of  his  mount. 
He  had  a  clear  tenor  voice  which  might  have  sounded 
rude  enough  in  a  drawing-room,  but  which  was  as  true 
to  the  wild  place  and  the  sad  poetry  of  the  evening  as  a 
blackbird's.  He  sang  in  the  Gaelic,  one  of  those  strange 
laments  which  have  been  handed  down  from  father  to  son, 
and  which  still  stir  the  blood  of  peasant  Ireland,  although 
the  injury  that  gave  them  birth  has  long  passed  into 
oblivion.  Suddenly  he  fell  silent ;  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the 
dying  sunset,  he  let  the  dreamy  essence  of  the  hour  creep 
into  his  being  and  invade  his  soul  with  its  melancholy. 

There  was  a  great  peace  about  him,  emphasized  by  the 
soft  thudding  of  unshod  hoofs  upon  the  turf,  the  far- 
away halloos  of  Dinny  Doyle,  and  the  cry  of  some  startled 
plover.  Up  in  the  green  sky  the  crescent  of  the  young 
moon  brightened  from  dim  silver  to  delicate  gold.  The 

61 


NEW  WINE 

boy  stared,  and  thinking  of  Moira,  his  heart  swelled,  till 
joy  grew  into  a  kind  of  pain;  and  a  lump  came  in  his 
throat. 

The  darkness  gathered,  and  the  colts  drew  close  about 
him,  as  if  seeking  comradeship.  The  evening  land-breeze 
had  risen,  and,  blowing  away  seaward,  hushed  that  myriad 
voice  of  the  waters  which  was  so  familiar  a  sound  to  his 
ears  that  he  scarcely  knew  his  world  without  it.  His  face 
was  turned  toward  the  coast  and  he  could  see,  cut  as  if  in 
some  velvet  shade,  the  outline  of  the  ruined  tower  against 
the  western  afterglow. 

There  was  a  ghostly  wreath  of  white  smoke  above;  and 
he  knew  it  came  from  his  own  chimney ;  the  chimney  of 
that  poor  hovel  where  he  sheltered,  scarcely  better  housed 
than  the  snail  that  clung  to  the  crumbling  stone. 

His  thoughts  shifted.  From  an  indefinite  melancholy, 
an  enervating  love  yearning,  they  unexpectedly  passed 
into  a  fierce  discontent.  What  a  life  for  him!  All  said 
and  done,  he  was  a  gentleman  born,  and  here  was  he  no 
better  than  the  peasant.  Was  this  how  he  was  to  spend 
the  years  that  God  would  give  him,  driving  colts  for 
Farmer  Daly;  jockeying  half-bred  beasts  at  the  fair,  for 
the  casual  guinea ;  hobnobbing  with  the  sons  of  those  who 
had  been  his  ancestors'  tenants,  and  in  no  way  different 
from  them?  Involuntarily  he  clenched  his  fingers  upon 
palms  hardened  to  leather,  and  under  the  jerking  of  the 
rope  that  served  as  reins,  the  untamed  creature  he  rode 
bucked  and  leaped  with  an  energy  that  would  have  un- 
seated any  one  else.  The  flurry  of  his  mount  communi- 
cated itself  to  its  comrades ;  and  there  was  a  flying  hustle 
that  would  at  another  moment  have  made  Shane  laugh. 
,To-night,  he  gave  a  muttered  curse.  And  then  the  na- 

62 


POINTS  OF  VIEW 

tive  good-humored  self,  with  which  he  was  most  familiar, 
was  surprised. 

"What  ails  me  at  all?  Oughtn't  I  to  be  the  happiest 
man  alive?" 

The  next  moment  the  dark  shadow  came  back  upon  his 
soul:  "Troth,  I'm  a  fine  fellow  to  be  thinking  of  taking 
a  wife,  and  nothing  better  to  offer  her  than  that  caubeen 
up  yonder !  There's  a  grand  place  to  bring  a  bride  to !" 

He  slid  off  his  colt's  rough  back,  caught  it  by  the 
bridoon,  chirruping  to  and  marshaling  the  rest  of  his 
charges  with  coaxing  noises  they  well  understood.  One 
of  them  stretched  a  timid  muzzle  towards  him,  bristling 
with  the  long  hairs  that  mark  the  "mountainey  foal," 
sniffed  his  cheek  with  a  soft,  cautious  breath,  swerved 
away  when  he  put  out  a  hand,  and  instantly  returned  to 
be  fondled. 

"There's  not  much  about  the  creatures  I  don't  know, 
anyhow,"  thought  the  young  man.  "It's  a  kind  of  horse- 
dealer  I'll  have  to  make  of  myself — and  that  mostly  spells 
rogue."  He  gave  a  harsh  laugh,  and  then  his  mood  soft- 
ened :  "Moira  will  keep  me  straight." 

He  drove  his  odd  cavalcade  through  a  gap  in  the  wall, 
and  out  on  to  the  road. 

He  kept  on  foot,  for  he  would  not  ride  the  beast  that 
was  not  yet  shod  upon  the  stony  causeway.  There  had, 
earlier  in  the  day,  been  heavy  showers,  and  long  streaks 
of  water  in  the  ditches  reflected  the  orange  stain  of  the 
afterglow,  and  the  slender  moon  above  it. 

"It's  a  queer  world,"  said  Shane,  as  he  tramped  along. 

He  had  not  far  to  go.  Where  that  light  glimmered, 
where  the  dogs  barked,  where  the  long  roofs  made  a  great 
blot  in  the  grayness,  there  was  his  destination.  If  John 

63 


NEW  WINE 

Daly  were  in  a  good  humor,  he  would,  maybe,  give  him 
five  shillings  for  the  afternoon's  work.  He  would  offer 
him  a  sup  of  whisky;  all  very  respectfully:  "Master 
Shane,  your  honor,  if  it  wouldn't  misbecome  the  likes  of 
you  to  be  accepting  the  nip  and  the  thrifle  from  the  likes 
of  me." 

Whisky  Shane  never  touched,  and  this  the  farmer  would 
know,  though  the  hospitable  ceremony  of  offering  it  would 
be  gone  through  notwithstanding;  but  the  money — "I'll 
not  take  his  palthry  money  either,"  thought  Shane,  with 
a  quick  flare  of  anger. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  known  himself  to  have 
the  smallest  susceptibility  on  such  a  matter.  Once  more 
he  was  almost  anxiously  surprised  at  his  own  mood. 

"What's  come  to  me?"  he  asked  himself  again.  "Is  it 
because  of  the  step  I've  taken  with  Moira,  that  I've  got 
to  have  a  man's  feelings  all  round?" 

He  wondered;  gave  a  flick  to  a  lagging  colt.  Here 
they  were,  all  in  a  bunch.  There  was  not  another  fellow 
in  the  west,  in  the  whole  of  Ireland,  for  aught  he  knew, 
that  could  have  done  a  job  like  that,  alone.  "It's  the 
power  I  have  over  them,"  he  thought.  Then  he  gave  a 
quick  sigh:  "It's  all  I'm  good  for.  It's  a  queer  world." 

For  Shane  it  was  a  world  out  of  joint,  that  evening. 


vn 


THE  ENVOY 

IF  Clenane  was  agreeably  stirred  over  so  fashionable  and 
contentious  an  engagement  as  that  of  an  O'Conor  with  a 
Blake — of  "the  quality  and  the  likes  of  us,"  "His  rever- 
ence agin  it,  and  himself  roaring  and  bawling  at  the 
thought  of  it" — if  there  was  even  betting  as  to  whether 
Shane  or  the  grazier  would  win  the  day,  there  was  yet  re- 
served for  the  village  a  deeper  thrill,  one  of  staggering 
unexpectedness. 

In  truth,  the  news  which  the  stranger,  who  suddenly 
appeared  on  Clancy's  outside  car,  brought  all  the  way 
from  England,  to  Father  Blake,  was  even  more  exciting 
than  last  winter's  murder. 

Before  the  unknown  gentleman  had  conveyed  the  pur- 
pose of  his  errand  to  the  startled  old  priest,  a  few  re- 
marks, tossed  by  Clancy  the  carman  to  a  passer-by,  had 
sent  the  tremendous  tidings  broadcast  through  Clenane. 
Women  rushed  into  their  front  yards ;  ragged  little 
scamps  playing  in  the  mud  took  up  the  cry — "Masther 
Shane  had  come  into  his  own !" — "They  were  all  dead,  the 
rest  of  them.  The  black  Protestants,  bad  cess  to  them, 
had  gone  to  their  choice  place !  Sure  the  diggle  had  got 
them!  And  their  own  darlint,  lovely  boy  was  Lord  Kil- 
more,  the  Earull  of  Kilmore,  no  less,  glory  be  to  God !" 
— it  was  the  grandest  tidings  Clenane  had  ever  had. 

"There's  Clancy  will  tell  you  all  about  it:  burnt  alive 

65 


NEW  WINE 

they  were,  in  Americky." — "Ah,  not  at  all,  woman,  it  was 
drownded  in  the  ship  going  over." — "You've  not  got  the 
rights  of  it.  It's  murdered  they  were ;  and  the  old  lord 
when  he  git  the  news  let  one  yell,  turned  black  down  the 
one  side  of  him,  and  quinched!" — "You've  got  hould  of 
the  wrong  end  of  the  story,  Mam.  Didn't  me  own  little 
gossoon  hear  his  riverence  and  the  gentleman  from  Lon- 
don Town,  discoorsing  together — and  him  under  the  win- 
dow of  the  priest's  house? — the  three  of  them,  the  father 
and  the  two  sons,  was  took  together,  the  rale  spotty  fever 
it  was.  Sure  it's  the  tirrible  disease :  you're  laughing  the 
one  moment  may  be,  and  the  next  you're  bending  two- 
double  in  the  backbone  and  you're  gone.  Faith  it's  the 
crooked  coffins  they  have  to  make  for  them." — "Ah, 
whisht,  don't  be  talking  of  coffins !  It's  joy  bells  we  ought 
to  be  thinking  of." 

Father  Blake  lifted  his  hands  and  let  them  drop  on 
the  table  when  his  visitor's  first  grave  sentence  had  come 
to  an  end. 

"Both! — both  his  sons!"  he  repeated  in  a  low  voice. 
"It's  a  sore  affliction.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  their 
souls !" 

Mr.  Clement  Parker,  a  junior  partner  of  that  well- 
known  firm,  Somerset,  Parker,  and  Blane,  Parliament 
Street,  looked  down  at  the  top  of  his  bowler  hat,  which 
he  was  holding  decorously  on  one  knee  with  a  gray-gloved 
hand,  and  emitted  a  slight  cough.  He  was  a  clean-shaven 
individual,  of  an  age  unplaceable,  between  the  late  thir- 
ties and  the  early  fifties.  His  long  gray  countenance  had 
turned  to  lavender  hue  under  the  shrewish  wind  blowing 
in  his  teeth  during  the  two  hours'  drive  from  the  station. 

66 


THE  ENVOY 

It  was  a  countenance  solemn  of  expression,  with  deep 
lines  running  from  nostril  to  chin.  But  besides  natural 
and  professional  gravity,  it  bore  to-day  a  stamp  of  some- 
thing faintly  approaching  distress.  After  a  pause  he 
said : — 

"Lord  Kilmore  is  very  seriously  affected." 

Father  Blake  groaned;  and  there  fell  a  silence.  The 
solicitor  surveyed  him  for  a  second  or  two  with  expres- 
sionless eyes,  dropping  his  underlip  and  audibly  drawing 
in  his  breath  through  his  lower  teeth.  Then  he  said,  with 
the  first  note  of  emotion  perceptible  in  his  voice: — 

"My  partner,  Mr.  Somerset,  ventured  at  the  time  to 
remonstrate  with  Lord  Kilmore  upon  the  imprudence  of 
sending  both  the  young  men  round  the  world  together. 
But  Lord  Kilmore  is  not  a  person  amenable  to  advice.  He 
had  his  reasons,  and" — Mr.  Parker  looked  down  again  at 
his  hat — "none  can  prevent  the  dispensation  of  Provi- 
dence. No  doubt  the  young  men  might  equally  have  been 
killed  together  in  some  railway  accident  in  England." 

"A  terrible  dispensation!"  Father  Blake's  face  dis- 
played his  acute  sense  of  the  tragedy.  "How  is  the  poor 
father  alive  at  all?  All  the  children  he  had  in  the  world, 
and  both  gone  in  a  moment !" 

"Before  I  left  London  his  lordship's  health  was  giving 
cause  for  very  serious  anxiety  indeed." 

The  emissary  said  this  with  peculiar  emphasis.  Father 
Blake  raised  his  eyes  with  a  startled  movement.  Their 
gaze  met. 

"My  God!"  The  old  man  spoke  under  his  breath — 
Mr.  Parker  dropped  his  glance,  and  passed  a  hand  ca- 
ressingly over  the  bowler.  Unduly  emotional,  these  Irish 
people,  but  quick-witted.  He  coughed  again. 

67 


"Is  that  what  you're  meaning?" 

The  priest's  accents  trembled  on  consternation.  Mr. 
Parker  smiled  one-sidedly  and  not  altogether  pleasantly 
as  he  responded : — 

"But,  my  good  sir,  the  facts  are  self-evident.  Failing 
Lord  Liscarell  and  his  brother  Guy  O'Conor,  the  next  in 
line  is  the  son  of  the  late  Desmond  O'Conor." 

"Shane!" 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  Father  Blake's 
agitation.  He  seemed  to  regard  the  news  as  unmitigated 
calamity. 

"These  are  great  prospects,"  said  Mr.  Parker  dryly, 
"for  an  unknown  and  penniless  youth." 

The  priest  took  out  a  red  pocket-handkerchief  and 
wiped  his  forehead. 

"You  must  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said,  with  a  shade  of 
dignity  as  he  caught  the  impassive  eyes  contemplating 
him,  "I  have  been  myself  unwell,  lately." 

The  lawyer  drew  his  chair  closer  to  the  table,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  would  get  on  to  business. 

"The  young  man,  I  understand,  has  spent  all  his  life, 
practically,  up  to  the  present  day,  in  this,  er — secluded 
place." 

"He  has." 

"You  were  appointed  guardian  by  the  late  Mrs.  Des- 
mond O'Conor." 

"I  was." 

"You  refused  Lord  Kilmore's  offer  to  take  charge  of  his 
nephew  and  undertake  his  education." 

"I  did." 

"It  was,"  said  the  solicitor  slowly,  "a  curious  attitude, 

68 


THE  ENVOY 

if  you  will  permit  me  to  say  so.  One  hardly  of  a  kind 
to  benefit  your  ward." 

"Look  here,"  said  the  priest — he  stretched  his  gout- 
distorted  hands  on  the  table  before  him,  clenching  the 
red  pocket-handkerchief  between  them — "Mr. — I  misre- 
member  your  name.  It's  no  matter.  You  said  yourself 
a  while  ago,  sir,  that  Lord  Kilmore  had  his  reasons.  I 
can  give  you  no  better  answer  than  those  same  words :  I 
had  my  reasons  for  refusing  to  let  the  child  go.  And  I 
still  think  they  were  good  reasons." 

"I  trust,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  who  seemed  to  be  very  well 
aware  of  the  whole  transaction  thus  obliquely  alluded  to^ 
"young  Mr.  Shane  O'Conor  has  grown  up  in  a  manner 
that  has  justified  your  decision." 

Father  Blake  fiercely  mopped  his  brow  again.  Then 
he  exclaimed: — 

"He's  grown  up  wild." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"Wild,  I  say."  Father  Blake  drummed  the  table  with 
an  irritated  nail,  leaned  forward  and  stared  so  intensely 
at  the  visitor  that  the  latter  drew  back.  "What  do  you 
think  he'd  grow  up  like,  reared  here,  among  us,  poor, 
ignorant  folk,  but  poor  and  ignorant  himself?  You'll  see 
for  yourself.  You'll  see  for  yourself.  And  you'll  see" 
— excitement  grew  again  in  the  old  man's  voice — "you'll 
see  the  finest  lad,  the  best  O'Conor  that  the  race  has  ever 
produced.  A  real  O'Conor,  mind  you — Catholic  to  the 
core." 

With  this  he  rose,  and  his  white  head  towered  over  the 
visitor's  meager  personality.  Mr.  Parker,  prepared  as 
he  had  been  for  Hibernian  perversity,  was  shocked  and 
disgusted.  He  certainly  had  not  come  on  this  long  jour- 

69 


NEW  WINE 

ney,  to  the  squalid,  farther  end  of  Ireland,  to  enter  into 
controversial  discussion  with  a  peasant  priest.  He  got 
up  in  his  turn  and  waived  the  question  with  a  contemp- 
tuous sweep  of  the  bowler  hat. 

"You  do  not,  I  presume,  reverend  sir,  claim  any  further 
authority  over  a  young  man  who  is  now,  I  believe,  enter- 
ing upon  his  twenty-third  year?" 

He  waited.  Father  Blake,  who  had  forgotten  the 
gouty  foot,  had  been  forced  to  fall  back  into  his  chair. 
It  was  some  time  before  he  was  able  to  answer,  feebly 
enough : — 

"Xo  authority.  I  claim  none,  sir.  None  at  all,  save 
what  an  old  friend  may  exert." 

Mr.  Parker  drew  his  whistling  breath,  and  gave  his 
one-sided  smile. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  bring  me  into  contact  with 
Mr.  O'Conor  immediately,  But  I  am  afraid  you  are 
scarcely  well  enough.  Perhaps  you  can  suggest " 

"There's  not  a  little  boy  about  the  place  that  wouldn't 

take  you  to  him ;  but "  Father  Blake  hesitated.  "Ay, 

that  will  be  best.  I'll  send  for  him,  I'll  send  for  him. 
And  if  meanwhile  I  can  offer  you  some  refreshment,  sir 
— a  glass  of  port  wine  and  a  bit  of  cake 

Mr.  Parker  was  already  looking  for  his  stick. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you.  Pray  do  not  trouble  on  either 
count."  He  spoke  with  more  alacrity  than  he  had  yet 
shown.  "Your  first  idea  is  excellent.  I  will  call  upon 
the  young  man  myself.  Pray,  not  another  word.  I 
much  prefer  it." 

Nevertheless,  with  a  drawn  and  sternly  set  countenance 
of  suffering,  Father  Blake  insisted  on  hobbling  out  to 
the  threshold  of  the  little  gray  house  and  putting  the 

70 


THE  ENVOY 

visitor  upon  his  way.  He  pointed  towards  the  ruins  that 
dominated  the  village. 

"Yon's  Kihnore  Castle.     And  it's  up  there  he  lives." 

"Up  there?" 

The  exclamation  indicated  surprise  and  consternation. 

"And  where,"  asked  Father  Blake,  "would  be  a  fitter 
place  for  an  O'Conor,  than  what  is  left  of  his  ancestors' 
glory?"  He  caught  a  side  vision  of  the  dropping  lip 
and  the  cold  eye,  and  stopped  abruptly.  "Here,  Patsey 
Dooley !"  he  called. 

An  urchin  sprang  up,  like  an  elf  out  of  the  ground,  from 
behind  a  ledge  of  rough  walling,  and  came  padding  up 
to  the  priest ;  just  the  barefoot,  ragged,  begrimed  little 
rascal  that  Mr.  Parker  would  have  expected  him  to  be. 
Meanwhile,  the  car  driver,  who  had  been  trying  to  catch 
Father  Blake's  eye,  now  at  last  succeeded.  He  touched 
his  hat  with  his  whip : — 

"Troth,  it's  but  poorly  you're  looking,  your  reverence! 
The  fut  is  it  ?  Glory  be  to  God,  it's  the  safe  spot."  Then 
he  pointed  with  the  butt  end  of  his  implement  towards 
the  retreating  figure  of  the  English  envoy;  winked,  and 
chuckled.  "It's  the  rale  ould  fox  I've  brought  you ;  but 
isn't  it  the  grand  news?  Not  that  you'd  drag  a  word 
ouL  of  that  one.  But  he  can't  keep  it  from  the  papers. 
There's  nothing  else  talked  about  all  along  the  line.  And 
the  boys  were  roaring  it  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Dub- 
lin last  night."  He  interrupted  himself  and  again 
pointed :  "Look  at  that,  your  riverence,  look  at  that ! 
Isn't  it  the  escort  my  fine  gentleman  is  getting  through 
Clenane !" 

Father  Blake  flung  an  abstracted  glance  in  that  direc- 
tion, and  had  a  wan  smile.  The  traveler  marching  along 

71 


NEW  WINE 

the  stony  road,  with  a  rigid  back  and  a  general  air  of 
painful  self-consciousness,  was  followed  by  an  ever  in- 
creasing train  of  children,  all  barefoot,  all  more  or  less 
ragged,  all  wildly  excited.  In  their  wake,  two  or  three 
grown-up  lads  and  a  crone  or  two,  were  already  gather- 
ing. On  the  door-step  of  every  poor  house,  leaning  over 
the  rugged  bit  of  wall  that  separated  its  patch  from  the 
street,  stood  interested  spectators,  loudly  discussing  the 
appearance  of  the  stranger  and  the  amazing  nature  of  his 
news. 

"Begob,"  said  Clancy  the  driver,  doubling  himself  in 
two  with  laughter,  "I'd  give  the  eyes  off  my  head  to  be 
prisint  when  young  Mister  O'Conor  meets  that  deputa- 
tion and  hears  the  news  for  himself." 

"Faith,"  said  the  old  priest,  "it's  the  mischief  it  should 
be  a  Saturday  and  all  the  children  loose!  What's  that 
ye  say,  Clancy?" 

"I'm  asking  your  riverence,  if  it's  his  lordship  we  ought 
to  be  calling  Mr.  Shane  now?" 

"Not  yet,"  Father  Blake  sighed,  and  added  involun- 
tarily :  "Thank  God !" 

Disappointment  wrote  itself  upon  Tom  Clancy's  black- 
whiskered  countenance. 

"Won't  it  make  any  differ  to  him  at  all  then  ?  Huthen, 
what's  all  the  mee-aw  about?  Good-day,  father.  I'd  bet- 
ter be  making  the  best  of  my  way  to  the  widow  Dooley's, 
and  put  up  the  mare,  till  the  ould  image  is  ready  for  us 
agin.  Is  it  after  taking  the  young  gintleman  away  with 
him,  he'll  be,  d'ye  think?" 

The  priest,  who  had  already  turned  to  reenter  his  nar- 
row hall,  started  and  wheeled  round,  supporting  himself 
by  the  door-post. 

72 


THE  ENVOY 

"  Ton  me  word,  I  hadn't  thought  of  that !  You're 
likely  right,  Clancy.  It's  very  ill  the  old  lord  is,  I'm  hear- 
ing." 

Clancy's  visage  became  illumined  with   a  broad   grin. 

"Well,  now,  the  Almighty  be  praised!"  he  ejaculated 
piously.  "Sure  it  won't  be  long  then,  for  Mr.  Shane." 

He  gathered  his  reins,  beat  the  tired  mare  into  a  stiff 
canter  and  rocketed  up  the  street  towards  Mrs.  Dooley's 
mixed  establishment,  where  entertainment  for  man  and 
beast  was  combined  with  the  sale  of  the  most  varied  com- 
modities. 

Mr.  Parker  felt  his  natural  Saxon  prejudice  deepen  into 
something  approaching  horror  as  he  proceeded  on  his 
way.  He  had,  indeed,  an  escort  increasing  with  every 
step.  Twice  he  tried  to  rid  himself  of  what  appeared  to 
him  to  be  the  entire  juvenile  population  of  Clenane;  but 
each  time  it  was  after  a  method  so  truly  British  as  to  be 
productive  of  results  diametrically  opposite  to  his  de- 
sire. He  turned,  waved  his  stick  in  a  more  or  less  threat- 
ening manner,  and  said  commandingly,  but  it  must  be 
admitted  ineptly: — • 

"Go  away,  little  boys  !     Go  away !" 

The  little  boys  looked  at  each  other,  grinned,  cheered, 
and  hallooed  in  Irish  to  distant  wanderers  to  come  end 
join  them,  while  closing  ever  more  pressingly  on  the  hu- 
morous gentleman. 

The  patter  of  all  those  naked  feet,  the  atmosphere  of 
turf  smoke  and  other  odors  that  emanated  from  the  lit- 
tle savages ;  their  uncouth  cries  and  their  ceaseless  inter- 
change of  remarks,  all  evidently  referring  to  himself,  in 
a  language  he  had  difficulty  in  recognizing  as  his  own, 

73 


NEW  WINE 

got  upon  the  solicitor's  nerves.  On  the  outskirts  of  the 
village,  he  stopped,  faced  his  tormentors,  and  flinging  a 
handful  of  pennies  among  them,  begged  them  passion- 
ately to  go  and  buy  sweets  and  leave  him  alone. 

"Sure,"  cried  Patsey  with  reproach,  having  failed  to 
capture  a  coin  for  himself,  "your  honor  didn't  ought  to 
have  done  that.  'Tis  tin  times  worse  they'll  be  now.  You 
might  as  well  thry  and  drive  the  mice  away  with  cheese !" 

Mr.  Parker  looked  gloomily  at  his  guide's  small,  dirty 
countenance.  The  thought  struck  him  that  this  unspeak- 
able urchin  showed  a  great  deal  more  intelligence  than 
would  the  average  washed  and  booted  young  John  Bull 
of  his  years ;  and  it  added  to  his  exasperation. 

It  was  bleak  weather.  He  had  traveled  all  night;  had 
made  but  a  poor  meal  in  Dublin  before  mounting  the  train 
that  was  to  carry  him  to  a  country  more  God-forsaken 
than  anything  he  had  thought  possible.  The  jaunt  on 
the  outside  car — a  vehicle  apparently  designed  for  the 
purpose  of  affording  a  searching  wind  the  utmost  play 
about  your  person — had  further  deepened  his  pessimism 
regarding  an  errand  sufficiently  antipathetic  in  itself.  It 
was  the  last  straw  that  he  should  be  cast  out  on  the  road, 
the  sport  of  a  squalid  crowd  and  of  a  gathering  Atlantic 
storm. 

The  sky  indeed  was  clouding  up  heavily,  and  a  rain  as 
fine  as  spray  had  been  added  to  the  penetrating  chill  of 
the  wind.  He  regretted  the  priest's  parlor,  humble  as  it 
was.  At  least,  there,  four  walls  had  sheltered  him;  a 
turf  fire,  ill-smelling,  but  still  a  fire,  had  warmed ;  and  there 
had  been  one  to  consort  with;  only  an  Irish  P.P.,  it  is 
true,  but  still  a  human  being.  Nevertheless  he  had  made 
his  choice  and  must  abide  by  it. 

74 


THE  ENVOY 

He  stumped  on,  striving  to  ignore  the  existence  of  any 
one  but  Patsey,  who  cheered  his  path  with  encouragement, 
much  as  a  coach  on  the  bank  will  cheer  a  racing  crew. 

"Arrah,  you're  the  grand  shtepper.  Any  one  can  see 
your  honor  is  accustomed  to  legging  it.  It'll  be  no  time 
at  all  before  we  -get  there,  at  the  rate  your  honor's  going. 
Sure  it's  the  climber  you  are,  as  any  one  can  tell  at  a 
glimp.  It's  just  above  you  now,  in  the  ruins,  sorr.  If 
you'll  take  the  throuble  to  lift  your  eyes,  you'll  see  the 
little  housheen  the  way  it's  sitting  inside  the  ould  court. 
The  castle  of  the  rale  O'Conors,  when  it  was  lords  of  the 
land  they  were.  It's  troops  of  people  that  do  be  coming 
to  see  it.  Car-loads  of  them  from  all  the  stations.  Sure 
they  wouldn't  miss  it  for  the  world.  Isn't  it  one  of  the 
sights  of  the  wesht?  I  wonder,  now,  if  we'll  find  him  at 
home  at  all,  once  we  get  your  honor  up  there?  No  one 
can  tell  where  Masthcr  Shane  will  be  stravaging.  It's 
days  he'll  be  out.  Ah,  nights  too.  What  did  you  say? 
Where  would  he  be  going  to  o'  nights?  Out  on  the  say 
in  his  little  boat.  Or,  maybe,  laying  out  to  catch  the 
wild  duck  over  by  the  lake  beyant  the  hills.  Ah,  what 
matters?  Sure  you  can  go  in  and  rest.  You'll  have 
the  ruins  seen,  annyhow." 

They  had  left  the  village  some  way  behind  by  a  mount- 
ing road,  and  now  found  themselves  brought  up  by  the 
usual  low,  roughstone  wall  of  the  country.  Mr.  Parker 
had  by  this  time  thought  himself  beyond  surprise ;  never- 
theless he  was  taken  aback  to  see  Patsey,  aided  by  two 
or  three  other  lads,  hurl 'himself  upon  the  barrier  and  pro- 
ceed to  make  a  breach  by  the  simple  method  of  pulling 
down  one  huge  stone  after  another. 

"Will  yer  honor  shtep  across?  Whatever  ye  do,  Tim 

75 


NEW  WINE 

Lonigan,  build  up  the  wall  again,  or  we'll  be  having  Mr. 
Blake's  colts  straying  on  us.  And  the  divil  and  all  it'll 
be.  Sure  haven't  I  got  to  show  the  gentleman  the  way, 
didn't  his  riverence  lay  it  on  me?  'It's  you  I've  chose, 
Patsey,'  he  says,  'because  I  know  I  can  rely  on  you.  I'd 
go  meself  if  it  wasn't  for  me  fut.'  Straight  on,  sorr, 
where  you  see  the  track." 

The  field  was  sopping  wet,  and  the  visitor  felt  the  mois- 
ture penetrate  through  the  soles  of  his  boots.  After  the 
check  caused  by  the  passage  of  the  gap,  his  retinue  began 
to  stream  close  upon  him  again.  He  was  glad  when  the 
arch  of  the  ruin  leaped  up  about  his  head  and  Patsey, 
diving  in,  informed  him  with  a  jubilant  crow: — 

"Here  we  are,  sorr !  If  ye'll  take  three  shteps  west,  it's 
inside  Mr.  Shane's  house  ye'll  be !" 

The  ruins  of  Kilmore  Castle  stand  on  a  rocky  promon- 
tory, which,  on  the  side  of  the  coast,  presents  a  sheer  wall 
of  cliff  to  the  sea.  But  on  the  land  side  it  is  approached 
by  a  fairly  lenient  slope,  clothed  with  wild  herbage  on 
which  one  or  two  rakish-looking  young  foals  and  an  el- 
derly mare  were  roaming.  On  a  fine  day,  the  view  to 
every  point  of  the  compass  is,  for  such  as  love  the  wide, 
melancholy  Irish  scenery  and  illimitable  ocean,  one  of  sin- 
gular impressiveness.  Look  which  way  you  will,  you  see 
spaces  immense,  hued  with  strange  colors  which  seem 
stolen  from  magic,  and  brooded  over  by  the  unseizable 
spirit  of  a  lost  romance  of  life.  But  in  such  weather  as 
unkind  fate  had  reserved  for  Mr.  Parker,  if  he  could  have 
spared  a  glance  towards  the  scenery,  it  would  have  been 
baffled  by  the  universal  gray  which,  driving  from  the  sea, 
muffled  the  world  in  mist. 

The  tower  of  Kilmore  reared  itself,  foursquare,  barti- 

76 


THE  ENVOY 

zaned,  crenelated,  and  defiant ;  but  it  was  an  empty  shell. 
Inside  its  hollowness  the  grass  grew  and  the  birds  nested ; 
the  visitor  might  walk  in  and  look  up  and  see  a  square  of 
sky  at  a  giddy  height  above  him.  The  walls  of  the  outer 
bailey  were  in  a  state  of  still  greater  dilapidation.  One 
whole  side  had  crashed  down  in  a  great  storm,  and  some 
of  the  stones  lay  scattered,  isolated  or  in  mounds,  just 
as  they  had  fallen;  the  rest  had  been  pillaged,  partly  to 
build  the  "housheen"  which  was  now  Shane's  dwelling 
place,  partly,  as  easiest  come  by,  for  farmer  Blake's 
boundary  walls,  though  in  that  country  stone  lies  every- 
where to  your  hand. 

It  was  a  forlorn  enough  looking  spot,  on  such  an  after- 
noon. A  waste  enclosure,  speaking  only,  at  first  sight,  of 
the  fall  of  power  and  the  passing  of  grandeur.  Neverthe- 
less the  second  glance,  to  eyes  less  jaundiced  than  those  of 
the  Englishman,  might  have  revealed  a  certain  picturesque- 
ness  in  the  tiny  stone  house  wedged  in  between  the  keep 
and  the  outer  wall.  It  looked  indeed  a  place  of  shelter. 
The  towering  masonry  stood  still  strong  to  defend.  The 
tempest  might  shriek  above  and  around:  here  it  could 
scarcely  reach. 

A  path  led  across  the  weed-grown  yard  to  the  little 
door ;  on  each  side  of  the  stone  step  of  the  threshold  there 
was  a  rough  bed  of  wallflower,  thick  with  bud.  The  cot- 
tage was  long  and  low-built,  with  a  roof  of  shale-slabs 
hanging  down  over  its  small  windows.  A  faint  breath  of 
smoke  crept  out  of  the  chimney  that  leaned  for  support 
against  the  keep. 

The  door  was  closed.  Already  Patsey  was  having  a  free 
fight  on  the  step  with  those  of  his  satellites  who  were  anx- 
ious to  share  with  him  the  honor  and  glory  of  introducing 

77 


NEW  WINE 

the  visitor  from  England  to  the  now  all-important  Master 
Shane.  But  neither  shouts  nor  knocks  produced  any  effect 
within. 

"He's  not  at  home.  Master  Shane  is  not  at  home,  I  tell 
you.  And  the  door  is  locked  on  us.  Sure,  sorr,  Mr. 
O'Conor's  off  with  himself " 

Before  Mr.  Clement  Parker  could  collect  his  thoughts 
sufficiently  to  form  an  anathema  equal  to  the  occasion — 
a  silent  anathema,  for  whatever  the  provocation,  he  was 
not  likely  to  forget  his  British  decorum — an  elderly 
woman,  cloaked,  with  a  hood  over  her  head,  and  a  key  in 
her  hand,  pushed  her  way  through  the  group  and  slipped 
round  to  the  door  with  the  sinuous  movement  of  a  lively 
fish.  A  murmur  of  approval  replaced  the  sympathetic 
groans  and  tongue  clacking  which  had  heralded  the  blank 
draw. 

"It's  Honor  Kcown!  More  power  to  you,  Honor! 
She's  got  the  key,  sorr!  Sure,  she'll  have  the  door  open 
on  you,  and  it's  out  of  the  wet  you'll  be  anyhow !" 

The  key  grated  in  the  lock  at  the  same  moment  and, 
straightening  herself,  the  newcomer  revealed  a  counte- 
nance of  almost  classic  beauty,  stern  as  a  Roman  matron's, 
framed  under  the  shadow  of  her  hood  by  rippling  bands 
of  iron-gray  hair.  Her  voice  was  severely  harmonious,  to 
match  her  appearance. 

"Will  you  walk  inside,  sir  ?  You're  kindly  welcome.  I'm 
Mr.  O'Conor's  housekeeper  from  the  village  beyant  down 
there.  Walk  in,  your  honor,  and  take  a  seat.  I'll  wet 
you  a  cup  of  tay  in  a  minute." 

She  seemed  to  the  disconcerted  traveler  of  a  different 
stamp  altogether  from  the  tatterdemalion  company  that 
had  escorted  him;  and  the  gesture  with  which  she  empha- 

78 


THE  ENVOY 

sized  her  invitation  to  enter  had  a  natural  dignity  and 
graciousness. 

She  stood  back,  and  he  passed  in,  stooping  his  head  un- 
der the  low  lintel.  The  room  in  which  he  found  himself 
was  so  far  superior  to  the  ordinary  run  of  Irish  hovels, 
had  he  known  it,  that  it  boasted  a  flagged  floor  and  some- 
thing approaching  a  fireplace  built  in  the  thickness  of 
stone.  True,  the  wide  chimney-shaft  went  straight  up 
with  archaic  simplicity:  if  you  stooped  you  could  see  the 
glimmer  of  daylight  at  the  top.  But  Mrs.  Keown  averred 
tlint  "it  drew  beautiful,"  and  that  the  griddle  cakes  she 
b-kcd  by  the  glow  beneath  were  the  best  in  the  barony. 
There  was  a  curious  rug  of  seal-hide,  flung  before  this 
hearth.  A  couple  of  wooden  arm-chairs  with  faded  cush- 
ions flanked  it.  For  the  rest,  the  room  contained  only 
a  deal  table  and  an  old-fashioned  dresser. 

rs.  Keown  had  taken  matters  in  her  own  hands  with 
all  the  authority  of  a  hostess.  She  drove  the  spectators 
out  with  sudden  fierceness,  ordering  Patsey  to  hang  over 
the  cliff  and  bawl  for  Master  Shane  and  the  rest  of  the 
children  to  scatter  in  other  likely  directions.  The  four 
or  five  lounging  youths,  with  airs  of  voluntary  discretion, 
retired ;  but  only  to  press  in  turns  against  the  window  and 
discuss  the  affair,  as  far  as  it  had  gone,  in  all  its  bearings. 

Having  inducted  the  guest  to  an  arm-chair  with  quite 
irresistible  ceremony,  Mr.  O'Conor's  housekeeper  turned 
to  the  turf  fire  and  plied  the  bellows  in  majestic  silence. 

Mr.  Parker  found  himself  gazing  about  him  with  more 
curiosity  than  he  would  have  cared  to  acknowledge.  The 
young  man  who,  the  priest  had  said,  had  been  brought  up 
as  a  peasant  among  peasants,  among  such  creatures  as 
those  savages  outside — what  kind  of  being  was  he  likely 

79 


NEW  WINE 

to  prove?  They  spoke  of  him  as  Master  Shane;  it  was 
evident,  then,  that  he  was  treated  with  some  show  of  re- 
spect. But  he  who  would  be  called  upon  to  bear  such 
honors  and  responsibilities  very  soon — the  lawyer  was  sure 
of  that;  he  had  seen  death  on  Lord  Kilmore's  face — how 
would  he  comport  himself? 

His  eyes  investigated.  Certainly  not  a  tidy  youth.  But 
a  sportsman.  The  gun  propped  in  the  corner  was  meticu- 
lously polished.  The  fishing  rods  lying  across  the  dresser 
were  of  the  latest  pattern.  (Fishing  was  Mr.  Parker's 
holiday  relaxation.)  Not  a  book.  Not  the  smallest  token 
of  cultivation  anywhere — unless  a  bunch  of  primroses 
thrust  in  a  mug  on  the  table  could  be  so  regarded.  A 
terribly  poor  place.  The  plastered  stone  walls  had  once 
been  whitewashed.  They  were  now  sallow,  smoke-stained. 
The  black  pot  which  Mrs.  Keown  had  removed  from  the 
chain  dangling  down  the  chimney,  to  make  room  for  the 
kettle,  no  doubt  contained  potatoes  for  young  O'Conor's 
supper.  Mr.  Parker  was  quite  stimulated  to  meet  that 
traditional  black  pot,  but  it  added  to  his  sense  of  the  dis- 
aster that  had  befallen  the  house  of  Kilmore. 

A  wretched  place !  The  door  of  the  inner  room  stood 
ajar,  and  Mr.  Parker  shifted  his  chair  so  as  to  obtain  a 
view  into  it  without  too  obstrusively  turning  his  head. 
All  he  could  see,  however,  was  a  streak  of  whitewashed 
wall  and  the  corner  of  a  narrow  bed  covered  with  a  patch- 
work quilt.  But  his  lips  tightened  and  his  brows  con- 
tracted as  he  looked :  for  on  that  section  of  wall,  he  beheld 
a  crucifix  with  a  dried  branch  stuck  behind  it.  Was  not 
this  the  worst  aspect  of  the  whole  deplorable  affair !  His 
underlip  dropped ;  he  drew  a  long  breath  with  his  dismal 
whistle. 

80 


THE  ENVOY 

Mrs.  Keown,  kneeling  by  the  fire,  looked  round  at  him 
over  her  shoulder.  She  presented  a  more  imposing  ap- 
pearance than  ever,  since  she  had  discarded  her  cloak,  and 
there  was  certainly  an  antique  nobility  about  the  line  of 
head  and  throat. 

"It's  the  down-power  of  weariness  you've  got  on  you, 
waiting  on  the  young  gentleman's  coming,"  she  remarked. 
"I'll  have  this  kettle  boiling  in  a  minute,  and  there's  a 
bit  of  soda-bread  in  the  scullery  beyant  that  I  only  baked 
yesterday.  And  didn't  I  bring  a  couple  of  fresh  eggs  this 
morning,  me  hins  having  laid  for  me?  Arrah,  God  is  good! 
Little  did  I  think  how  handy  they'd  come  in.  Sure  that'll 
help  you  to  pass  the  time. — Whist,  now,  it's  biling." 

She  rose  with  stately  movement;  disappeared  into  the 
recesses  of  the  bedroom,  where,  with  an  increase  of  curi- 
osity, the  stranger  heard  sounds  of  rummaging.  Presently 
she  emerged,  her  arms  full  of  objects  wrapped  in  paper, 
with  which  she  stepped  across  the  room  and  out  by  an- 
other door  into  what  was  obviously  the  scullery.  The 
kettle  began  to  rock  and  bubble  on  the  turf.  And  Mr. 
Parker,  realizing  that  the  thought  of  the  tea,  the  fresh 
eggs,  and  the  griddle  cake,  was  an  agreeable  perspective, 
began  to  hope  that  the  appearance  of  "the  young  gentle- 
man" might  be  delayed  yet  awhile. 

The  woman  reappeared,  carrying  in  one  hand  the  two 
eggs  in  a  saucepan,  and  in  the  other  a  tea-pot;  and  in  a 
surprisingly  short  time,  there  was  set  before  Mr.  Parker 
an  array  at  which  he  stared  in  amazement — a  tea-pot,  in- 
sufficiently polished,  it  is  true,  but  indubitably  silver  and 
of  a  charming  Georgian  melon  shape,  chased  and  engraved. 
He  looked  closer  at  it  through  his  eye-glass.  Mrs.  Keown 
was  observing  him. 

81 


NEW  WINE 

"Ah,  'tis  rale  silver,  sorr.  And  them's  the  arms  of  the 
rale  O'Conors.  Maybe  your  honor  knows  about  her  that's 
gone,  the  poor  lady  from  Ameriky,  Mr.  Shane's  own 
mamma  that  died  on  us.  Hand  and  foot  I  tinded  her. 
But  she  was  marked  for  death  before  she  came  to  us  at 
all,  and  the  air  of  the  say  tuk  her  in  the  chest.  Musha, 
if  I  didn't  forget  the  salt!  And  that's  the  little  jug  to 
match.  I'll  thrubble  you  to  observe  the  cream.  Cast  your 
eye  on  the  richness  of  it.  And  I'm  sorry  the  sugar  should 
be  moist — well  aware,"  said  Mrs.  Keown,  drawing  herself 
up,  "that  quality  likes  the  lump.  But  I  have  to  consider 
me  young  master's  purse.  The  plate  you're  looking  at, 
sorr,  is  a  bit  of  the  real  old  chancy,  her  ladyship  Mrs. 
O'Conor  brought  with  her.  Great  store  she  set  on  it.  But 
it  got  smashed  on  me,  the  most  of  it.  The  ways  of  Provi- 
dence," concluded  the  speaker  piously,  "being  agin  ever- 
lastingness  in  this  world." 

Mr.  Parker  contemplated  the  yellow  Spode  plate  with 
some  regret.  The  rest  of  the  crockery  was  chiefly  remark- 
able for  its  lack  of  relationship.  The  griddle  bread  on  an 
earthen  dish  was  flat  in  shape  with  a  wonderfully  white 
crumb  and  a  close  crust  plentifully  floured.  He  cut  a 
slice,  buttered  and  bit  into  it;  but  paused  on  the  strange 
flavor  and  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Keown :  he  had  unexpectedly 
come  upon  a  caraway  seed. 

"Huthen,  your  honor  needn't  be  afraid  of  the  butter," 
cried  she.  "Didn't  I  bring  it  straight  from  Mr.  Blake's, 
and  hasn't  he  the  best  dairy  in  the  whole  of  Clare?  And 
hadn't  Moira,  that's  Miss  Blake,  sorr,  just  finished  press- 
ing it?  And  that  little  pat  there  she  made  o'  purpose  for 
me,  and  no  wonder,  seeing  it's  for  Masthcr  Shane." 

The  butter  was  unimpeachable.  To  his  further  surprise, 

82 


THE  ENVOY 

the  tea  was  of  fine  quality.  The  griddle  bread  had  almost 
a  fascination.  And  as  he  broke  into  his  egg,  its  milky 
freshness  overflowed  the  spoon.  A  sensation  as  near  to 
geniality  as  his  nature  was  capable  of:  an  appreciation 
that  there  was  a  humorous  and,  yes,  actually  a  comfort- 
able side,  to  the  adventure,  began  to  steal  upon  the  so- 
licitor. His  crooked  smile  was  not  satiric  as  he  remarked : 

"Mr.  O'Conor  seems  popular  with  you  all." 

"Popular?"  repeated  Mrs.  Keown.  She  paused,  and 
then  proceeded  with  hardly  an  inflection  in  her  rich  quiet 
voice :  "There  isn't  one  of  us  wouldn't  lay  down  our 
lives  for  him  this  minute." 

"But  failing  that  extreme  measure,"  said  Mr.  Parker 
waggishly,  helping  himself  as  he  spoke,  "he  is  provided 
with  fresh  eggs  and,  really,  excellent  butter." 

"Butter —  '  Mrs.  Keown  broke  off,  and  a  glint  of 
mirth  came  into  her  tragic  dark  eye.  "Butter  is  it?  Why 
wouldn't  she  make  butter  for  him,  and  they  the  regular 
pair?  Why  the  doves  isn't  in  it  with  them!" 

Mr.  Parker  stared,  consternation  dawning  on  his  coun- 
tenance. It  is  quite  possible  that  Mrs.  Keown  perceived 
the  unpleasing  effect  her  words  had  produced  and  shrewdly 
guessed  the  cause,  for  she  proceeded  with  an  eloquence 
not  devoid  of  malice: 

"Me  fine  Daddy  Blake  will  be  singing  another  tune,  when 
he  learns  the  grandeur  that  has  come  Masther  Shane's 
way.  He'll  not  be  so  anxious  to  back  ould  Clery.  Isn't 
it  the  real  lord  Mr.  Shane  is  now?  Glory  be  to  God,  to 
think  of  Moira  being  a  lord's  lady  !" 

"Lord  Kilmore  is  not  dead  yet,"  snapped  Mr.  Parker. 

He  pushed  the  slice  of  bread  he  had  cut  for  himself 
pettishly  away.  Only  savages  would  bake  with  caraway 

83 


NEW  WINE 

seeds !  Mrs.  Keown  paused  for  effect.  Then  she  continued 
undauntedly : 

"Troth,  then,  you  must  be  thinking  he  wouldn't  last 
long,  or  you  wouldn't  be  after  Mr.  Shane  the  way  you 
are." 

Mr.  Parker  took  a  hurried  draught  of  tea,  and  laid 
down  his  egg-spoon.  The  meal  had  lost  flavor  for  him. 
Mrs.  Keown's  words  were  only  too  clear.  The  counte- 
nances against  the  window  panes,  the  staring  eyes,  the  un- 
ceasing clatter  of  voices  outside  suddenly  got  on  his  nerves. 
The  room  had  grown  dark  with  the  rising  squall  and  the 
falling  of  the  firelight. 

"This  is  intolerable !"  The  solicitor  sprang  from  his 
chair.  "I  cannot  wait  here  all  night." 

The  woman  who  had  served  him  with  such  dignified 
hospitality,  saw  him  draw  two  half-crowns  from  his  pocket 
and  lay  them  on  the  table,  and  heard  the  ungracious  mut- 
ter: 

"Here's  for  your  trouble." 

Mrs.  Keown  folded  her  arms  and  stood  with  her  most 
Cornelia-like  aspect.  She  gave  the  visitor  a  black  look 
as  he  moved  stiffly  to  the  door.  Here  was  no  way  at  all 
to  treat  any  one!  Not  so  much  as  a  thank  you,  and  her 
lovely  egg  not  finished !  Huthen,  God  send  him  wanting ! 

Before  Mr.  Parker's  hand  had  touched  the  latch,  there 
came  a  shrill  cry  from  without,  answered  by  a  shout  from 
the  idlers. 

"Master  Shane !" 


VIII 


THE    HEIR   AT   LAW 

THE  wind  caught  the  solicitor,  full  blast,  as  he  followed 
the  swiftly  vanishing  band  out  of  the  shelter  of  the  bailey 
walls.  It  came  straight  across  the  Atlantic,  that  wind ; 
from  the  icy  shores  of  Labrador,  and  Mr.  Parker  took 
cover  hurriedly  behind  the  wall;  not  before,  however,  he 
had  had  a  glimpse  of  a  tall  figure  driven  towards  him, 
darkly  glistening  all  over  in  a  seaman's  tarpaulin  and 
sou'wester.  About  and  around,  the  members  of  Mr.  Par- 
ker's whilom  train  circled ;  their  rags  flapped,  he  thought, 
like  so  many  demented  scarecrows ;  shrill  cries,  such  as 
seafowl  might  emit,  rose  from  among  them.  A  huge  black 
dog,  shining  with  wet  even  as  his  master,  flew  like  a  streak 
of  lightning  into  the  cottage. 

"I  really  feel,"  said  the  poor  gentleman  to  himself,  "as 
if  I  were  in  a  bad  dream." 

"What's  all  this?"  exclaimed  Shane  O'Conor.  He  had 
by  no  means  the  air  of  one  overwhelmed  by  fortune's  un- 
expected favors,  as  he  marched  through  the  ruined  gate- 
way, and  brought  himself  up  short  before  the  stranger. 
Rather  was  his  countenance  frowning.  His  lips  were  com- 
pressed. He  fixed  Mr.  Parker  with  a  pair  of  blazing  blue 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  looking  upon  the  face  of  his  enemy. 
"What's  all  this?"  he  said  again,  and  without  waiting  for 
an  articulate  answer,  turned  scowling  on  the  excited 
throng.  "I'll  have  to  trouble  you  to  let  me  speak  in  peace 

85 


NEW  WINE 

to  this  gentleman.  What  are  you  all  staring  at  me  like 
that  for?  You  know  me  well  enough !"  He  made  a  sweep- 
ing gesture  of  his  wet  arm;  and  then,  addressing  his  vis- 
itor, continued  in  the  same  tone :  "Please  step  inside,  un- 
less you  want  to  be  talking  in  the  teeth  of  the  wind." 

Mr.  Parker  found  himself  as  submissive  as  the  youth  of 
Clenane,  which  latter  melted  away  into  the  wind-blown 
drift  even  as  he  re-entered  the  cottage.  Shane  walked 
in  after  him,  divesting  himself  of  his  dripping  coat  and 
casting  off  the  sou'wester  under  the  curves  of  which  his 
chiseled  face  had  an  odd  Mercury  look. 

"Glory  be  to  God !"  cried  Mrs.  Keown.  She  swooped 
dramatically  upon  the  wet  heap  and  disappeared  into  the 
scullery  with  her  booty,  slamming  the  door.  There  was 
no  need  to  tell  her  "when  gintlemen  wanted  to  be  private." 

"Will  you  sit?"  said  Shane  with  a  hostile  eye  on  the 
bringer  of  strange  tidings. 

Without  a  glance  in  the  direction  of  the  unfinished  meal, 
he  dragged  up  the  second  arm-chair  close  to  the  hearth 
and  stretched  his  sea-booted  legs  to  the  turf,  before  which 
they  soon  began  to  steam.  Leprechaun  was  steaming,  too, 
as  he  turned  round  and  round  upon  the  sealskin,  rubbing 
his  dripping  shoulders.  Mr.  Parker  had  seldom  felt  so 
nonplussed.  It  was  with  a  nervous  laugh  that  he  began. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  may  have  heard,  Mr.  O'Conor, 
concerning  my  errand.  Your — er — these  good  people 
here  seem  an  agitated  lot.  I  had  better  introduce  myself 
first."  He  drew  a  card  from  his  pocket-book,  forcing 
himself  to  more  than  usual  deliberation  because  of  his 
really  ridiculous  sense  of  being  somehow  at  a  disadvantage 
under  the  gaze  of  this  odd  young  man. 

Shane  took  the  card  in  a  hand,  the  lawyer  noted,  tanned 

86 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

to  the  color  of  seaweed,  and  still  wet  as  seaweed,  yet,  as 
he  noted,  too,  a  fine  and  well-shaped  hand.  Kilmore's  heir 
hardly  glanced  at  the  name  and  carelessly  threw  the  card 
down  on  the  table.  His  look  questioned  impatiently: 
"Well?" 

"I  have  come  here  at  the  request  of  your  uncle,  our 
client,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  after  a  pause.  His  voice  grated 
harshly.  He  had  been  prepared  to  patronize  to  a  certain 
point,  while  deploring  and  disapproving.  Patronage  was 
difficult  here.  Something  like  dislike  rose  up  in  its  stead. 
"Lord  Kilmore — your — er — uncle — has  had  a  severe  af- 
fliction in  the  death  of  both  his  sons '  He  paused. 

The  announcement  seemed  to  himself  so  tremendous  in  its 
import  that  it  demanded  a  pause. 

"Poor  chap,"  said  Shane ;  but  there  was  no  emotion  in 
his  accents,  nor  relaxation  in  his  eyes. 

"You  are  no  doubt  aware,"  pursued  the  other,  after  a 
whistling  breath,  "how  this  untoward  event  affects  your- 
self." 

Shane  hesitated ;  then : — 

"I'm  not  a  fool,"  he  replied  briefly. 

Mr.  Parker  drew  himself  up.  What  an  unlicked  cub! 
And  yet,  it  added  to  his  sense  of  grievance  that  he  could 
not  altogether  condemn.  Here  was  a  personality,  a  being 
full  of  vital  force;  Shane  O'Conor,  when  he  became  Lord 
Kilmore,  would  not  pass  into  the  unnumbered  legion  of 
the  negligible.  He  would  stand  out.  Wherever  he  went, 
eyes  would  follow  him;  whenever  he  spoke,  people  would 
turn  round  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  interior  of  a  cottage  room,  at  seven  o'clock  on  an 
evening  of  Atlantic  bad  weather,  is  hardly  a  place  for 
defined  vision.  Nevertheless,  enough  of  the  young  man's 

87 


NEW  WINE 

face  and  figure  was  visible  to  the  lawyer  for  him  to  real- 
ize that  the  family  good  looks — yes,  and  strange  indeed, 
the  family  air  of  breeding — were  not  wanting.  But, 
Heavens,  what  an  accent!  And,  shades  of  those  conven- 
tions which  Mr.  Parker  loved,  what  a  lack  of  courtesy ! 

"Lord  Kilmore  wishes  to  see  you,"  said  the  solicitor 
frigidly,  after  a  reflective  silence. 

"Does  he?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  O'Conor,  and  it  is  a  request  which  seems  to 
me  impossible  for  you  to  refuse." 

Shane  kicked  a  protruding  turf.  It  broke  into  tran- 
sient flame  which  illuminated  his  dark  countenance  and 
showed  a  slight  satiric  smile. 

"There  may  be  two  opinions  about  that." 

"Lord  Kilmore  is  very  ill."  The  tone  was  profoundly 
rebuking. 

Shane  pushed  his  chair  back  with  an  abrupt  movement 
and  jumped  up. 

"And  what  is  that  to  me?"  he  exclaimed.  "What  for 
should  I  care  whether  he  live  or  die,  except,  indeed" — he 
broke  off  to  laugh,  not  pleasantly — "for  the  difference  it 
makes  to  me?" 

"You  render  my  task  very  difficult,"  said  Mr.  Parker. 
"I  have  been  accustomed  to  deal  with" — he  had  almost 
been  betrayed  into  the  absurdity  of  insulting  a  future 
client.  He  was  about  to  say:  "with  gentlemen,"  but  he 
altered  the  phrase,  "with  sensible  people." 

"What  does  he  want  me  for?"  Shane  bent  his  face,  pale 
in  the  dusk,  towards  his  visitor.  "What  has  he  ever  done 
for  me?  I  might  rot  here,  for  all  he  cares,  if  it  weren't 
that  I  happen  to  come  next  those  that  are  gone." 

88 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

"I  think  you  are  doing  your  uncle  an  injustice.  Lord 
Kilmore  offered,  not  once,  but  twice " 

The  other  interrupted  fiercely : — 

"Aye,  and  how? — How?  Oh,  you're  horrified  at  me  this 
moment  that  I'm  not  ready  to  melt  at  the  thought  that 
my  uncle  is  on  his  death-bed.  How  did  he  treat  my  mother 
when  she  lay  on  hers?"  He  flung  out  his  arm  towards 
the  open  bedroom  door  with  a  gesture  unconsciously 
tragic.  "Didn't  he  want  her  to  seal  the  blackest  bargain 
that  ever  the  devil  drew  up,  for  the  soul  of  a  child  that 
could  not  choose  for  itself?  Didn't  he  play  the  same  game 
on  Father  Blake,  down  yonder?  Not  once,  but  twice, 
as  you  say  yourself.  I  owe  my  uncle  nothing.  Not  that !" 
He  snapped  his  fingers.  "Wait,  though.  Perhaps  I  might 
feel  to  be  owing  him  something  but  that  he's  got  his  pun- 
ishment. That's  not  saying — "  The  heat  of  passion 
dropped  from  him,  he  stuffed  his  hands  into  his  pockets ; 
and,  wheeling  upon  the  visitor,  added  in  an  unexpected 
colloquial,  every  day  manner:  "That's  not  saying  I  don't 
mean  to  go  over  there,  to  him.  I  do." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so." 

Mr.  Parker  got  up  in  his  turn.  He  was  very  tired  and 
beginning  to  feel  stiff  and  rheumatic.  He  supposed,  dis- 
gustedly, that  it  was  the  Irish  way  to  expend  yourself  in 
passion  that  meant  nothing  after  all:  it  seemed  to  him  an 
exasperating  waste  of  time  and  energy. 

"The  sooner  the  better,  if  I  may  advise."  He  had  his 
wry  smile.  Then,  diving  into  an  inner  pocket,  he  produced 
a  letter-case. 

"Lord  Kilmore  wished  me  to  provide  for  all  contin- 
gencies. Here  are  fifty  pounds  in  notes." 

"Take  back  your  dirty  money !"  cried  young  O'Conor. 

89  " 


NEW  WINE 

His  blue  eyes  danced  with  a  fury  that  was  not  devoid  of 
joy.  It  was  his  first  score.  "I've  got  enough  and  to  spare 
for  the  journey — and  back.  And  what's  this?"  He  had 
caught  sight  of  the  two  half-crowns  which  Mrs.  Keown 
had  disdainfully  left  lying  between  the  butter-dish  and 
the  tea-pot. 

Mr.  Parker  was  more  discomfited  than  the  discomfiting 
day  had  yet  found  him. 

"I  gave  your  housekeeper,  something — something  for 
her  trouble,"  he  stammered. 

Shane's  lip  curled. 

"Ah,  and  she  wouldn't  have  it.  Put  it  back  in  your 
pocket,  sir,  we  do  not  sell  our  hospitality  in  Ireland." 

The  grandiloquence  restored  the  solicitor's  sense  of 
superiority. 

"You  seem  to  be,  altogether,  in  the  enjoyment  of  con- 
siderable affluence,"  he  remarked.  And  to  his  sneer  was 
joined  a  meaning  glance  at  his  surroundings. 

Shane  retorted  hotly : — 

"We've  enough,  anyhow,  not  to  want  yours.  I  made 
twenty  pounds  last  week  at  Lishone  races." 

There  was  boyish  triumph  in  his  air.  Mr.  Parker,  slip- 
ping the  half-crowns  into  his  pocket,  shot  the  single  ques- 
tion at  him: — 

"Betting?" 

"Betting,"  Shane  laughed.  "And  riding.  Any  one  who 
wants  to  sell  a  horse  in  this  corner  of  the  world,  I'm  the 
lad  they  come  to." 

"Well,  there's  nothing  need  detain  me  any  more,  I  pre- 
sume.'* The  Englishman  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  the 
completeness  of  his  distaste.  He  took  up  the  pocket-book, 
extracted  from  it  a  sealed  envelope:  "A  letter  from  Lord 

90 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

Kilmore,"  he  said,  and  laid  it  conspicuously  on  the  tea- 
tray.  "It  contains  the  invitation  to  yourself,  and  of 
course  the  address  in  London  at  which  he  expects  you." 
Then  returning  the  wallet  with  its  despised  contents  to 
his  pocket:  "If  you  will  take  my  advice,  young  man," 
he  said,  and  there  was  warning  in  his  eye  as  well  as  in 
his  tone,  "you  will  not  delay  an  hour  longer  than  need 
be.  It  will  make  a  difference  to  your  future  position 
that  you  should  have  been  received  by  your  uncle  before 
coming  into  your  inheritance." 

"I'll  not  delay,"  said  Shane  laconically. 
Mr.  Parker  reached  for  his  bowler  hat,  folded  his  muf- 
fler about  his   throat,  buttoned  his   overcoat  and  lifted 
its  collar. 

"The  car-driver  informs  me,"  he  said,  as  he  advanced 
towards  the  door,  "that  I  shall  not  find  any  decent  lodg- 
ing nearer  than  Galway  Town.  I  have  still  a  long  drive 
before  me  in  the  wet." 

"I'll  see  you  down  to  Dooley's,"  Shane  observed. 
Leprechaun,  who  had  seemed  lost  in  profound  slum- 
bers, his  nose  between  his  paws,  his  long  body  shaken  with 
reminiscent  shudders,  here  sprang  up,  and  advanced  to- 
wards his  master,  ignoring  the  stranger  as  he  had  done 
from  the  beginning. 

"Back,  boy!"  ordered  Shane,  and  with  a  droop  of  his 
whole  being,  the  retriever  returned  to  the  hearth,  and 
flung  himself  down  again,  giving  an  almost  human  sigh. 
At  this  singularly  opportune  moment,  Mrs.  Keown  ap- 
peared in  great  majesty  on  the  threshold  of  the  scullery 
door ;  and  stepping  forward  offered  Shane  his  tarpaulin 
with  one  hand  and  his  sou'wester  with  the  other.  She, 
too,  now  ignored  Mr.  Parker's  existence.  The  young  man 

91 


NEW  WINE 

donned  the  garments  without  a  word;  and  then  held  the 
door  open  for  his  visitor  to  pflass  into  the  gray  outer  world. 

"I  shall  take  the  morning  express  to-morrow,"  said 
Mr.  Parker,  with  a  painful  effort  at  cordiality,  as  they 
crossed  the  yard  together.  "And  what  would  you  say, 
Mr.  O'Conor,  to  joining  me  at  your  station?" 

"I'd  say  no."  This  uncompromising  statement  was, 
however,  qualified,  after  a  silence,  as  they  breasted  the 
blast  that  met  them  at  the  corner  of  the  ruins — Shane 
had  to  lift  his  voice  to  make  himself  heard.  "I  couldn't 
leave  my  friends  in  that  way ;  and  I've  got  to  break  the 
news  to  one — to  one  who  will  be  first  to  me,  whatever 
happens." 

Mr.  Parker  nearly  groaned  as  he  picked  an  anxious  way 
across  the  soaking  field.  Betting,  horse-dealing,  prob- 
ably racing,  and  an  entanglement — the  outlook  seeemd 
to  him  as  gloomy  for  the  future  of  Kilmore  as  was  the 
actual  aspect  of  the  land  that  had  once  been  its  own. 

"The  man  is  drunk,"  said  Mr.  Parker. 

He  stood  in  the  center  of  an  interested  group — it  was 
difficult  to  avoid  publicity  in  Clenane — and,  for  him,  the 
bitter  cup  of  the  day's  experience  brimmed.  The  glare 
of  the  paraffin  lamp  that  hung  in  the  narrow  entrance 
to  Mrs.  Dooley's  house  of  entertainment  illuminated  the 
car-driver  as  he  supported  himself  against  the  door-post. 
He  was  grinning  inanely  at  his  fare.  It  also  illuminated 
a  most  indignant  Mr.  Parker,  whose  lip  dropped  with 
some  reason.  It  illuminated  Shane's  aloof,  scornful  face, 
the  deeply  interested  circle,  and  the  widow  Dooley's  rubi- 
cund countenance  which  now  assumed  an  expression  of 
shocked  rebuke. 

"Drunk,  sorr!  It  isn't  in  my  house  that  anybody,  let 

92 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

alone  a  shteady  respectable  man  like  Tomsie  Clancy  here, 
would  get  drunk.  He's  not  drunk,  your  honor.  It's  all 
along  of  the  cold  being  driven  in  upon  him  in  the  rain,  and 
him  always  delicate  in  the  stomach.  And  me  seeing  the 
trembles  coming  over  him,  put  the  ginger  into  his  hot 
drink.  It's  that  that's  done  it:  the  power  of  the  ginger 
gone  to  his  head." 

It  apparently  had  gone  to  his  legs,  for  here  Mr.  Clancy 
evinced  a  tendency  to  sit  down  on  nothing,  and  was  only 
arrested  on  the  way  by  the  clutch  of  a  couple  of  sympa- 
thizers. 

Perhaps  the  prospect  of  a  long  drive  through  gathering 
darkness,  in  such  weather,  was  one  that  could  be  aban- 
doned without  too  much  regret.  Mr.  Parker  made  no  at- 
tempt to  find  another  conveyance.  He  wondered  wearily 
into  space  if  there  was  anywhere  he  could  put  up.  In- 
stantly half  a  dozen  voices  clamored. 

"There's  my  poor  place,  you  know,"  said  young 
O'Conor,  with  a  smile  that  forestalled  refusal. 

Mrs.  Keown,  classic  in  the  folds  of  her  great  blue  cloak, 
with  the  hood  drawn  over  her  noble  head,  appeared  mys- 
teriously at  his  elbow. 

"Sure  and  you  needn't  be  making  little  of  yourself 
that  away,  Masther  Shane.  It's  the  grand  little  room 
you've  got  up  there;  and,  by  the  greatest  of  chance,  it's 
the  lovely  pair  of  clean  sheets  I  have  airing  for  it  this 
minute.  And  I'll  make  yourself  a  shake-down  in  the 
kitchen." 

Mr.  Parker  had  a  gesture  more  abrupt  than  civil. 
Besides  the  impossibility  of  facing  a  walk  back  to  the 
lonely  shanty,  the  thought  of  lying  in  that  bed  beneath 
the  crucifix  filled  him  with  unreasonable  repulsion. 

93 


NEW  WINE 

"If  anny  one  is  to  offer  accommodation  to  the  gintlc- 
man,"  said  Mrs.  Dooley,  with  majesty,  "it  would  come 
best,  I'll  make  bould  to  say,  from  the  proprietress  of  the 
Ho-tel !" 

"There's  the  docther  now.     He's  a  nice  house.     But 
sure,  his  sister's  the  holy  terror  and  all." 

"Wirrah,  and  why  wouldn't  the  gentleman  go  to 
Blake's?  Danny  Blake's,  your  honor,  at  Kilmore  Farm. 
It's  the  fine  place  he  has  there,  wid  feather  beds  and 
all,  that  Mrs.  Blake  has  picked  every  wan  wid  her  own 
hand.  It's  the  height  of  treatment  they'd  give  you.  And 
Mrs.  Blake  would  think  nothing  of  wringing  the  neck  of 
a  couple  of  ducks,  or  cutting  the  heads  off  a  pair  of  doaty 
little  spring  chickens " 

"Ah,  whisht,  all  of  you!  It's  the  priest's  house  the 
gentleman  had  better  go  to.  Hasn't  he  got  the  curate's 
room  with  a  spring  bed  in  it,  and  ould  Mary  that  can 
send  up  a  dinner  for  a  dozen  priests?" 

Mr.  Parker,  bewildered  by  conflicting  advice,  seized 
upon  the  last  suggestion.  It  seemed  indeed  the  only  prac- 
ticable one.  The  doubtful  appearance  of  Mrs.  Dooley's 
premises,  and  the  undoubted  atmosphere  of  raw  spirit, 
turf,  and  tobacco  smoke,  salt  fish  and  cabbage,  that  rushed 
richly  out  of  it,  made  the  thought  of  seeking  shelter  there 
impossible.  He  turned  to  Shane. 

"If  the  reverend  gentleman  can  really  take  me  in v 

Shane  looked  at  him  with  surprise. 

"Why  would  you  doubt  it?"  he  said,  and  added  briefly, 
"I'll  go  as  far  with  you  and  see  you  safe  in." 

Mrs.  Dooley  received  the  decision  with  good  humor, 
ordering  Patsey  to  hurry  now  with  the  gentleman's  port- 
manteau, which  Clancey,  the  creature,  had  had  "the  sinse 

94 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

to  bring  in  out  of  the  rain,  and  him  accused  of  the  drunk- 
enness !"  But  Shane,  declaring  he  would  carry  it  himself, 
shouldered  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  feather  weight,  and  strode 
away  towards  the  priest's  house. 

They  found  the  owner  still  sitting  over  the  turf  fire, 
once  again  in  converse  with  the  doctor,  who  greeted  Shane 
with  a  great  shout.  The  red  moreen  curtains  were  drawn  ; 
a  pair  of  candles  in  old-fashioned  plated  candlesticks 
burned  on  the  table.  The  doctor,  an  empty  tea-cup  be- 
side him,  had  just  started  an  excellent  cigar.  The  im- 
pression was  more  favorable  than  Mr.  Parker  had  dared 
to  hope.  And  although  Shane's  method  of  presenting  the 
situation  could  scarcely  be  called  gracious,  it  produced  a 
gracious  result. 

"You'll  have  to  take  him  for  the  night,  father,  for  there 
isn't  any  other  place  fit  for  him — and  Clancy  drunk." 

The  old  priest  rose  quickly  and  limped  forward,  stretch- 
ing out  both  hands. 

"My  dear  sir,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life!  I'll 
have  a  fire  lit  this  minute.  Mary,  light  the  fire  in  the 
curate's  room!  Shane,  my  boy,  run  and  tell  Mary,  she 
doesn't  hear,  there's  a  dear  lad.  Tell  her  we  have  a  guest. 
She  must  do  the  best  (she  can — supper  and  all.  We'll  do 
the  best  we  can,  sir.  But  anyway,  you're  kindly  welcome." 

"I've  got  the  neatest  little  loin  of  mutton  at  home,  that 
ever  was  cut,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  I'll  send  it  round  to 
you  for  chops.  I'm  Dr.  Molloy,  sir,"  he  bowed  affably. 
"And  why  wouldn't  you  be  comfortable?"  he  now  ad- 
dressed the  stranger:  "I  know  for  a  fact  that  Father 
Blake's  not  drunk  a  drop  of  that  half-dozen  of  Burgundy 
I  sent  him  last  Christmas — sure  it's  the  poor  man's  gout 
he's  got — unless,  indeed,  he's  given  it  away." 

95 


NEW  WINE 

"I  have  not.  At  least  there's  a  couple  of  bottles  left," 
put  in  the  priest  apologetically. 

"Here,  let  me  help  you  off  with  your  coat.  Drenched,  it 
is.  That's  how  people  get  the  chill  in  on  their  chubes. 
Ah,  you've  got  goloshes,  I  see.  That's  grand.  Take  the 
arm-chair,  now,  by  the  fire.  And  you,  your  reverence, 
don't  let  me  see  you  standing  on  your  bad  foot.  Sit 
down,  both  of  you,  while  I  leave  these  things  in  the  hall." 

Mr.  Parker,  with  an  approach  to  a  straight  smile,  let 
himself  fall  on  the  cushion  of  the  chair  indicated.  These 
people  were  uncivilized,  but  there  was,  no  doubt,  a  warm- 
heartedness about  them,  which — yes — which  had  its  at- 
traction. He  rather  liked  the  looks  of  Dr.  Molloy:  they 
had  an  alertness  which  commended  itself  to  the  British 
mind.  And  when  this  worthy  reappeared  and  offered  a 
cigar,  the  traveler  felt  that  there  were  compensations  even 
for  one  benighted  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland.  Tramp- 
ing steps  resounded  all  through  the  little  house,  as  Shane 
mounted  the  stairs;  the  thud  of  the  deposited  portman- 
teau shook  the  ceiling;  then  came  the  descending  tread. 

"Begorra,"  said  Dr.  Molloy,  "is  it  going  out  of  the 
house  he  is,  without  another  word?  I  won't  stand  that! 
Shane,  Shane,  my  boy!" 

"Well,  what  is  it,  doctor?" 

The  young  man  opened  the  door,  but  stood  on  the 
threshold  obviously  bent  on  retreat. 

"Why,  what  ails  you?  Here's  Father  Blake  and  my- 
self that  have  a  heart  full  of  good  wishes  for  you,  with  the 
grand  news  that's  come." 

"I've  not  made  up  my  mind,  if  they're  so  grand,"  said 
Shane. 

The  priest  looked  at  him,  and  his  face  worked. 

96 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

"With  the  help  of  God  you  will  make  them  grand,  my 
poor  child,"  he  said. 

"Come  in  with  you,  and  sit  down,  can't  you?"  cried 
Molloy  impatiently. 

"I  can't  then.    I've  got  to  be  off." 

And  without  another  word  Shane  was  gone.  You  might 
as  well  have  tried  to  hold  one  of  those  swift,  dark  clouds 
that  were  at  that  moment  sailing  with  the  blast  across 
the  evening  sky.  Priest  and  doctor  exchanged  a  look. 
The  doctor  cleared  his  throat,  and  addressed  his  old  friend 
with  some  defiance. 

"Faith,  and  I  wouldn't  want  to  keep  him,  for  it's  the 
good  girl  she  is,  and  she's  the  best  right  to  him."  Then 
he  added  reflectively :  "He's  taking  it  hard." 

Father  Blake  sighed  again. 

"Why  wouldn't  he?  Whether  he  likes  it  or  not,  it'll 
have  to  be  the  end  of  many  a  thing  he's  come  to  care  for, 
if  he's  to  start  right." 

"I'm  not  of  your  way  of  thinking,  and  you  know  that," 
retorted  Molloy,  in  sore  and  angry  tones.  "I'd  have  no 
opinion  of  him,  then,  if  he  was  that  way." 

Mr.  Parker,  puffing  at  his  cigar,  looked  from  one  to 
the  other,  and  thought  that  if  these  were  true  specimens 
of  Ireland,  it  was  certainly  the  most  improvident,  incon- 
sequent race  that  ever  sensible  folk  were  called  upon  to 
rule.  Here  was  the  priest  sighing  like  a  furnace  because 
of  the  unheard-of  good  fortune  that  had  overtaken  the 
youth  of  whom  he  had  had  the  care ;  and  there  was  the  doc- 
tor, who  had  looked  like  an  intelligent  man,  encouraging 
a  folly  so  outrageous  that  even  the  priest  recognized  it 
as  such. 

Dr.  Molloy  broke  in  upon  his  musing. 

97 


NEW  WINE 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,  or  she'll  have  my  head  off.  I'd 
have  asked  you  up  to  my  little  house  and  welcome,  sir. 
But  I've  a  poor  sister  at  home  there,  and  she's  very  fright- 
ful of  strangers — with  deafness  and  a  bit  of  a  temper  and 
all.  Faith,  that's  a  good  cigar  you're  tasting?  It's  one 
of  a  box  Captain  Joyce  gave  me ;  and  I  always  think" — 
he  turned  to  Father  Blake — "that  Captain  Joyce's  cigars 
beat  his  lordship's  any  day.  I'll  warn  Mary  on  my  way 
out  to  get  her  gridiron  ready.  'Pon  my  soul,  a  chop  red- 
hot  off  the  fire  is  a  dish  for  a  king." 

Without  sharing  this  Keltic  enthusiasm,  the  English- 
man was  nevertheless  ready  to  admit  to  himself  that  the 
meal  served  in  the  little  presbytery  was,  after  all,  as  good 
as  anything  he'd  ever  had,  even  within  the  civilization  of 
England.  The  potatoes  bursting  out  of  their  skins,  steam- 
ing and  mealy,  came  up  to  their  national  reputation.  The 
doctor's  Burgundy  was  equal  to  his  cigar. 

Mr.  Parker  was,  it  is  true,  slightly  disappointed  to  find 
that  he  could  in  no  way  "draw"  his  host  on  the  burning 
politics  of  the  hour.  After  the  first  glass  of  wine  he  felt 
sufficiently  restored  to  think  it  might  be  at  once  profitable 
and  entertaining  to  get  first-hand  acquaintance  with  the 
real  state  of  opinion  in  Ireland,  accompanied  by  side  lights 
on  the  attitude  of  priests  and  their  noxious  influence  over 
their  ignorant  flocks.  At  the  first  question,  however, 
Father  Blake  had  flung  his  guest  a  single  piercing  look 
from  under  his  beetling  brows.  And  thereafter  not  the 
neatest  turn  of  legal  ingenuity  could  extract  anything 
from  him  but  such  exasperatingly  non-committal  phrases 
as,  "May  be  so !"  "  'Tisn't  for  me  to  say."  "There's  a 

98 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

deal  of  talk  on  both  sides" — or  yet,  "God  help  us,  it's  a 
queer  world !" 

When  old  Mary  had  cleared  the  table,  she  brought  her 
master  a  cup  of  the  strongest  tea  that  Mr.  Parker  had 
ever  seen  brewed.  The  remains  of  the  bottle  of  Burgundy 
and  his  glass  were  left  at  the  visitor's  elbow.  The  latter, 
an  abstemious  man  if  knowledgeable  in  wines,  was  fur- 
ther aggrieved.  He  had  told  himself  that  if  the  priest 
had  drunk  water  during  the  meal,  he  would  certainly  make 
up  for  it,  in  accordance  with  all  conventions,  by  the  na- 
tional brew  afterwards.  Coupling  this  asceticism  with 
his  reticence,  the  lawyer  told  himself  that  he  had  to  deal 
with  a  sly  old  bird. 

Nevertheless,  he  swallowed  down  his  feelings  of  an- 
tipathy, remembering  that  he  had  here  an  ally  on  one  im- 
portant point,  at  least.  He  resolved  to  make  use  of  this 
advantage  as  far  as  possible.  Crossing  his  legs  and 
stretching  himself  as  luxuriously  as  the  narrow  arm-chair 
would  allow,  he  began  in  an  off-hand  manner: — 

"As  you  told  me,  Father  Blake,  Mr.  O'Conor  is  a  very 
fine  young  man.  Quite  the  family  type." 

Father  Blake  made  a  little  movement,  as  if  the  patron- 
age of  the  tone  annoyed  him. 

"I  haven't  laid  eyes  on  an  O'Conor,  save  him,  since  his 
grandfather,  Lord  Ivilmore,  shook  the  dust  of  Ireland  off 
his  feet,"  he  said,  and  there  was  bitterness  in  his  tone. 

The  lawyer  suppressed  an  inclination  to  express  his  ap- 
preciation of  that  nobleman's  remarkable  good  sense ;  he 
merely  observed: — 

"It's  a  strong  type." 

"Ay,"  said  the  priest. 

"I  hope,"  said  Mr.  Parker,  sitting  up  briskly  and  speak- 

99 


NEW  WINE 

ing  emphatically,  "that  you  will  exert  your  influence,  my 
good  sir,  in  persuading  the  young  man  not  to  delay  in 
obeying  his  uncle's  behest  to  visit  him.  It  will  make  a  dif- 
ference, as  I  told  him — not,  perhaps,  a  money  difference, 
but  a  social  one,  to  the  position  he  will  shortly  have  to 
take  in  the  world,  if  he  should  have  received  open  recog- 
nition from  the  present  peer." 

His  host  nodded  reflectively. 

"It  struck  me,"  pursued  Mr.  Parker,  with  a  smile  more 
crooked  than  usual,  "that  Mr.  O'Conor  is — well,  to  put 
it  mildly — inclined  to  be  willful." 

"He  won't  be  said." 

"I  beg  your  pardon?" 

"He  won't  be  said,"  repeated  the  other  loudly.  "You 
have  to  take  him  as  you  find  him." 

"At  least,"  observed  the  solicitor  with  acerbity,  "you 
will  recognize  that  what  is  perhaps  the  last  request  of 
a  dying  man  should  not  be  callously  set  aside — unless,  in- 
deed," his  measured  accents  took  an  edge,  "in  your  creed 
it  is  regarded  as  wrong  to  'show  anything  but  hostility 
to  a  Protestant." 

"You've  no  call  to  say  that,"  said  Father  Blake  quietly. 
And  Mr.  Parker  turned  purple  as  he  remembered  at  whose 
hearth  he  sat  and  how  he  had  been  entertained.  He  was 
vellum  bound,  but  not  brutal. 

"I  beg  your  pardon !"  he  exclaimed,  after  quite  another 
fashion.  "I  ought  not  to  have  made  that  remark.  In- 
deed you  have  proved 

His  host  interrupted,  waving  his  hand. 

"There,  there,  that'll  do,  my  dear  sir.  It's  little  I  have, 
but  you're  welcome  to  it." 

Oddly  enough,  this  incident  broke  the  ice  between  them. 

100 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

The  priest  dropped  his  rather  inimical  caution,  and  said, 
with  great  earnestness : — 

"I'm  entirely  of  your  opinion.  It  is  Shane's  duty  to 
go  and  see  his  uncle  as  soon  as  possible.  Poor  man,  God 
help  him !  It  would  be  a  heart  of  stone  that  would  grudge 
him  any  attention  now.  Let's  see.  To-morrow's  Sunday. 
He'd  better  get  off  on  Monday.  No  later  than  Monday." 

"I  would  wait  for  him  in  Dublin,"  said  Mr.  Parker, 
with  some  eagerness.  "We  could  cross  over  together." 

The  priest  agreed. 

"That  would  be  a  good  thing,  if  convenient  to  yourself. 
You  might  introduce  him  to  his  uncle.  It  would  be  a  kind- 
ness. It  would  be  less  strange  for  him." 

The  other  brightened  more  and  more. 

"Lord  Kilmore  is  in  his  town  house.  I  should  consider 
it  my  duty." 

"It  would  be  a  kindness,"  repeated  the  priest. 

After  that  there  fell  a  silence.  Mr.  Parker  had  some- 
thing to  say,  and  was  cogitating  on  the  best  way  to  ex- 
press it.  He  approached  the  matter  obliquely. 

"You  think  then,  Mr. — er — Father  Blake" — he  was 
bent  on  being  affable — "that  you  can  induce  Mr.  O'Conor 
to  leave  on  Monday." 

"He'll  have  to  go.     He'll  have  to  go." 

Making  a  mental  note  of  the  dictatorial  attitude  of  the 
Irish  clergy  to  the  laity — not  a  bit  exaggerated,  after  all 
— the  envoy  proceeded  with  elaborate  airiness : — 

"Your  friend,  the  doctor,  hinted — indeed,  I  gathered 

from  Mr.  O'Conor  himself — there  is  an  attachment " 

He  glanced  furtively  at  the  pensive  old  face  opposite; 
but  Father  Blake  received  the  suggestion  with  frankness. 

"Ay,  indeed,  you're  in  the  right  of  it.  It  was  only  what 

101 


NEW  WINE 

might  have  been  expected:  a  good  girl,  a  fine  girl.  She's 
my  own  great-niece,  sir,  and  I've  known  her  ever  since 
the  day  I  baptized  her.  And  I've  never  known  anything 
of  her  but  what  was  the  best." 

Mr.  Parker's  mouth  was  open  upon  an  expression  of 
disapproval  not  unmixed  with  sarcasm,  when  the  old  man 
forestalled  him. 

"But  she's  only  a  farmer's  daughter.  I've  been 
against  it  from  the  first.  It  stands  to  reason,  Mr.  Parker 
— I'm  not  blaming  them,  mind  you" — this  quickly — "it's 
myself  I'm  blaming.  It's  no  kind  of  marriage  for  him. 

I  couldn't  countenance  it.  And  now  that  this — this *' 

He  hesitated  upon  an  adjective,  and  said  finally,  "this 
strange  news  has  come,  it  shows  me  that  I  have  been 
right.  It  makes  it  altogether  out  of  the  question." 

The  listener  drew  a  breath  through  his  teeth. 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so.  I  confess,  I  was 
alarmed.  As  you  say,  it  would  be  deplorable.  A  handi- 
cap from  the  very  outset." 

The  priest  looked  sadly  and  sternly  at  his  guest. 

"There's  no  need,"  he  responded,  "to  be  discussing  the 
matter  any  further." 

"But,  I'm  afraid" — Mr.  Parker,  after  all,  could  not 
conceal  some  satire — "that  your  merely  saying  so,  my 
good  sir,  will  not  altogether  dispose  of  the  matter." 

"Her  father's  against  it  too." 

"Indeed !"     The  visitor  was  full  of  surprise. 

"He  favors  another  suitor,  sir." 

"Indeed !" 

"He's  a  hard  man,  and  Shane,  poor  lad,  it's  little  or  no 
money  he  has." 

Mr.  Parker's  face  considerably  darkened.  He  stared 

102 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

at  his  host.  Was  it  possible  that  his  wits  could  really  be 
so  dense?  It  was  without  reflecting  on  the  bearing  of 
his  words  that  he  proceeded  hastily : — 

"I  should  like  to  have  a  little  conversation  with  the 
father  of  the  young  person.  I  could  explain  to  him  how 
very  little  likely  a  young  man  such  as  Mr.  O'Conor  would 
be  to  want  to  come  back  and  marry  a  farmer's  daughter, 
once  he  has  seen  something  of  the  world.  We  cannot  re- 
gard it  as  an  engagement  where  the  paternal  consent 
has  been  refused." 

The  other  still  looked  at  him  with  troubled  eyes. 

"They're  set  on  each  other,  sir.  Set  on  each  other. 
And  I  wouldn't  like  to  say" — a  flush  rose  on  his  wrinkled 
cheek — "now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  how  my  nephew 
Daniel  Blake  might  be  regarding  the  matter  now,  things 
being  as  they  are." 

"But  I  think  I  could  make  him  see — I  am  sure  Mr. 
O'Conor — as  Lord  Kilmore — would  be  the  first,  the  very 
first,  to  recognize  any  claim " 

"Claim?"  interrupted  Father  Blake.  He  gripped  the 
wooden  arms  of  his  chair  with  both  hands.  His  eyes  for- 
bade another  word. 

But  Mr.  Parker  was  staring  at  the  red  turf;  he  saw 
nothing. 

"Compensation,"  he  went  on,  "very  generous  compen- 
sation." 

"Is  it  money  you  mean?" 

Mr.  Parker  glanced  up  with  a  start,  and  saw  his  blun- 
der. The  priest's  voice  had  an  echo  of  Shane's  scornful 
cry :  "Take  back  your  dirty  money !"  But  here  to  scorn 
was  coupled  an  intensity  of  anger  which  quite  distressed 
the  well-meaning  solicitor. 

103 


NEW  WINE 

"My  good  sir,  I  assure  you  no  offense  is  intended.  It's 
a  mere  matter  of  business.  You  really  must  allow  me,  as 
a  lawyer,  to  take  the  business  point  of  view.  I  never 
meant  to  hint,  I  never  for  a  moment  thought  of  suggest- 
ing anything  discreditable  to  the,  ah,  young  lady.  But 
compensation  for  a  disappointment,  something  substan- 
tial towards  a  comfortable  settlement  in  life.  My  dear 
Father  Blake,  I  assure  you,  as  a  man  of  the  world,  it  is 
done  every  day." 

"It  may  be,  over  there,  in  England,"  said  the  old  man, 
after  a  long  pause.  "But  I'll  thank  you  not  to  be  men- 
tioning such  doings  in  my  hearing." 

He  hauled  himself  painfully  out  of  his  chair.  "You'll 
be  glad  to  get  to  your  room,  I  dare  say.  Will  you  ring 
the  bell  if  there's  anything  you  want?  Good-night  to 
you.  I'll  send  Mary  in  to  light  you  up." 

The  old  priest  bowed  and  hobbled  out  of  the  room. 

The  traveler  was  accordingly  conducted  to  his  bedroom 
by  the  housekeeper.  Mary  was  a  taciturn  old  woman  in 
a  huge  white  goffered  cap  tied  under  her  chin.  He  had 
already  noted  its  almost  fierce  cleanliness  which  extended 
to  the  rest  of  her  garb. 

She  set  the  flat  candlestick  on  the  painted  table,  cast 
two  more  turves  on  the  already  blazing  pile,  made  him  a 
straight  dip,  and  departed — all  without  a  word.  She 
had  a  large-featured,  dark-complexioned,  profoundly 
wrinkled  face;  and  the  single  glance  she  vouchsafed  him 
from  piercing  dark  eyes,  was  inimical. 

"With  her  it's  anathema  for  the  heretic,  right  enough !" 
thought  Mr.  Parker.  But  though  he  laughed,  he  was 
not  amused.  Neither  did  he  feel  happy  in  his  mind.  He 
resented  the  set-down  which  his  reverend  host  had  just 

104 


THE  HEIR  AT  LAW 

administered.  He  had,  furthermore,  the  uneasy  conscious- 
ness of  having  been  put  in  the  wrong  and  seeming  to  de- 
serve it.  The  fault  was,  of  course,  in  the  perversity  of 
the  Irish  character;  its  absurd  tetchiness;  its  sickening 
passion  for  sentimentality  and  its  obstinate  elimination 
of  common  sense  in  common  life.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
a  well-balanced  Englishman — Mr.  Parker  knew  that  what- 
ever he  was,  he  was  well-balanced — should  find  himself  un- 
able to  cope  with  such  impracticability. 

He  glanced  round  the  room,  and  started  a  little:  he 
was,  after  all,  destined  to  sleep  under  a  crucifix,  with  some 
superstitious  nonsense  of  a  dried  twig  behind  it!  It 
hung  over  the  narrow  bed  with  its  spotless  honeycombed 
quilt — the  spring-bed  proclaimed  by  Clenane. 

He  did  not  have  a  very  good  night.  He  was  profes- 
sionally annoyed  by  the  vexing  question  of  the  heir  of 
Kilmore's  matrimonial  entanglement.  No  one  knows  bet- 
ter than  a  solicitor  the  complicated  disasters  which  an 
unequal  marriage  brings  in  its  train.  He  was  personally 
annoyed  by  Shane  O'Conor's  reception  of  him.  He  was 
even  rather  annoyed  with  himself  for  not  having  suc- 
ceeded in  impressing  this  half-civilized  community  with 
any  sense  of  his  importance.  The  senior  partner  of  the 
firm  would  certainly  hold  him  responsible  if  he  did  not 
manage  to  bring  over  the  young  man  in  time  to  see  his 
uncle  alive.  Yet  what  could  he  do?  It  was  evident  that 
the  delay  till  the  Monday  was  inevitable.  It  was  folly. 
It  was  obstinacy.  He  tossed  from  side  to  side,  and  heard 
the  rain  beat  against  the  window  pane ;  the  surge  of  the 
sea  and  the  voice  of  the  wind  blending  in  one  terrible  roar. 

Apparently,  in  the  room  next  to  him,  Father  Blake 
had  a  no  more  restful  night  than  his  guest.  For,  now 

105 


NEW  WINE 

and  again,  the  creaking  of  the  bed  was  audible  through 
the  partition,  always  accompanied  by  a  stifled  groan  and 
the  words,  "The  Lord  have  mercy  on  me!"  It  all  made 
a  more  unpleasant  impression  on  Mr.  Parker's  nerves  than 
he  would  have  admitted,  even  to  himself. 


IX 


THE  CHURCH  AND   THE  LAW 

No  transformation  scene  could  have  presented  a  more 
complete  contrast  than  did  the  Clenane  of  the  Sunday 
morning  to  the  Clenane  of  the  Saturday  night. 

Clenane,  this  day,  all  bathed  in  sunshine,  with  coast 
and  hills  exquisitely  washed  in  color;  the  whitened  houses 
with  their  shale  or  thatched  roofs,  picturesque  as  though 
set  for  a  sketch;  the  little  old  gray  church,  square-tow- 
ered; and  the  procession  of  mass-goers,  decorous,  well- 
clothed  ;  booted  all  of  them,  except  the  children ;  types  of 
comfort  and  respectability  unrecognizable  as  the  tatter- 
demalion crew  of  the  day  before.  A  few  old  women  had 
shawls  over  their  heads ;  many,  like  Mrs.  Keown,  wore  the 
traditional  cloaks  with  the  great  hoods  and  statuesque 
folds  that  fall  to  the  hem ;  a  more  practical  and  becoming 
garment,  Mr.  Parker  was  forced  to  admit,  than  he  had 
ever  beheld  in  rural  England.  There  were  girls  with  skirts 
of  the  Connemara  red,  handsome  creatures  with  dark  eyes, 
that  drew  the  shawl  or  hood,  or  yet  this  scarlet  skirt 
itself  over  their  faces,  in  Eastern  fashion,  as  they  passed 
the  stranger.  Small  maidens  dropped  curtseys,  looking 
up  with  glances,  half  mischievous,  half  appealing.  The 
boys  pulled  at  their  caps.  Mr.  Parker  could  hardly  be- 
lieve that  they  were  the  same  urchins  who  had  screamed 
and  fought  like  wild  animals  along  his  path  the  day  be- 
fore. 

107 


NEW  WINE 

He  stood  within  the  enclosure  of  the  Presbytery  gar- 
den, leaning  against  the  wall,  watching.  He  would  light 
a  cigar,  presently,  and  stroll  down  to  the  sea,  since  in 
this  benighted  spot  there  was  no  place  of  worship  for  a 
votary  of  the  reformed  Church.  The  morning  air  was 
wonderfully  pure  and  restoring  after  his  abominable 
night.  Meanwhile  he  thought  it  might  be  useful  if  he 
were  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  young  woman  who  had  the 
heir  of  Kilmore  in  her  snares. 

A  man  on  a  powerful  black  horse  clattered  by  at  a 
swinging  trot.  Man  and  beast  seemed  in  an  equal  state 
of  lather,  thought  Mr.  Parker,  as  they  drew  up  before 
the  churchyard  gate.  A  lounger  detached  himself  from 
the  group  that  filled  the  porch,  and  going  forward,  took 
charge  of  the  horse  and  led  him  away,  while  the  rider, 
who  had  hurled  himself  from  the  saddle,  dashed  round 
towards  the  rear  of  the  building,  cracking  his  hunting- 
crop  as  he  went. 

The  lawyer  noted  that,  conjoined  to  a  blatantly  eques- 
trian attire,  the  newcomer  wore  a  Roman  collar;  and  he 
rightly  concluded  that  here  was  some  priest  from  a  dis- 
tance to  take  the  invalid's  duty.  This  latter  had  long 
ago  hobbled  into  the  chapel,  to  pray  with  his  people,  since 
he  could  not  officiate.  The  chapel  bell  stopped  ringing. 
There  was  a  stir  among  the  knot  of  men  in  the  porch; 
they  uncovered  their  heads,  turned  their  faces  towards 
the  open  door,  and  pressed  one  against  the  other,  but, 
to  Mr.  Parker's  surprise,  showed  no  disposition  to  enter 
the  sacred  building. 

It  was  at  this  moment  he  became  aware  of  a  figure  com- 
ing alone  down  the  village  street;  the  figure  of  a  girl. 
As  she  advanced  he  saw  that  she  was  tall,  held  herself 

108 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

well,  and  walked  with  a  free  step.  Her  hair  glinted  un- 
der a  wide-brimmed  hat.  She  wore  a  plain,  rather  ample 
gray  dress,  and  carried  a  prayer-book  in  her  hand. 

Mr.  Parker  was  not  a  man  of  imagination,  but  some- 
how he  had  not  the  least  doubt  of  this  late  worshiper's 
identity.  She  went  by  without  noticing  him,  her  lids 
cast  down.  He  thought,  with  an  ironic  smile,  of  Mar- 
garet's first  entrance  in  the  Faust  tragedy.  And,  as  if 
to  complete  the  effect,  Shane  O'Conor  leaped  from  be- 
hind the  chapel  where  he  had  apparently  lain  in  waiting, 
and  joined  her  just  as  she  reached  the  gate. 

"Quite  theatrical !"  the  solicitor  reflected,  and  wondered 
with  a  grim  humor  whether  he  himself  represented 
Mephistopheles.  But,  on  the  second  thought,  he  was 
shocked  at  the  ribaldry  of  his  own  suggestion.  On  the 
contrary,  was  he  not  here  to  preach  renunciation,  to  dep- 
recate folly  and  induct  headstrong  youth  into  the  ways 
of  conventionality,  with  all  the  energy  of  his  respectable 
soul? 

Unwillingly  he  conceded  they  were  a  handsome  couple; 
more  unwillingly  still,  that  there  was  something  beauti- 
ful about  the  smile  which  lit  up  both  faces,  as,  very  quietly, 
without  even  a  hand  touch,  they  greeted. 

Side  by  side  they  advanced  towards  the  chapel.  The 
knot  of  external  worshipers  parted  as  Shane  tapped  one 
or  two  on  the  shoulder,  and  formed  up  again  after  the 
pair  had  walked  in.  The  sound  of  a  voice  uplifted  in 
rapid  singsong  was  answered  with  such  a  burst  of  unani- 
mous fervor  from  the  congregation  that  the  listener  out- 
side actually  started.  The  men  in  the  porch  began  to 
sway  against  each  other,  some  kneeling,  others  merely 
bending,  all  with  every  appearance  of  deep  attention. 

109 


NEW  WINE 

As  the  English  visitor  strolled  away,  seaward,  he  asked 
himself  why  on  earth  they  didn't  go  into  the  edifice  and 
pray  like  Christians.  There  was  apparently  no  lack  of 
room  within.  He  decided  that  it  was  an  inconsequent 
and  irresponsible  community;  and  he  doubted  very  much 
if  anybody  would  ever  get  much  good  of  Mr.  Shane 
O'Conor.  Perhaps  somewhere,  in  a  certainly  unacknowl- 
edged corner  of  his  conscience,  there  was  a  small,  uneasy 
voice  questioning  whether  to  separate  the  young  man  from 
his  chosen  would  be  an  act  altogether  conducive  to  his 
moral  welfare.  For  it  was  a  sweet,  womanly  face,  as  well 
as  a  handsome,  that  the  girl  had  revealed  to  his  prejudiced 
eye.  And  the  look  of  love  that  had  passed  between  the 
two  had  been — Mr.  Parker  coughed  and  told  himself  that 
the  fatigues  of  the  day  before,  combined  with  want  of 
.sleep,  were  positively  affecting  his  nerves. 

He  glanced  at  the  steep  path  that  led  down  to  the  shore 
and  decided  it  was  scarcely  good  enough.  The  sunshine 
was  warm,  but  there  was  a  confounded  feeling  of  damp- 
ness. He  turned  and  started  to  walk  inland,  with  a  con- 
temptuous gaze  upon  the  small  reclaimed  patches  visible 
here  and  there  in  the  desolate  stone-strewn  waste.  Pov- 
erty, rocks,  hovels,  and  a  few  leggy,  wild-looking  groups 
of  colts — a  God-forsaken  country ! 

Such  was  the  result  of  his  observations  as  he  found  him- 
self once  more  in  Clenane  village.  The  chapel  bell  was 
just  then  breaking  into  a  panting  peal:  the  outside  con- 
gregation went  down  as  one  man,  prostrating  itself  in  an 
attitude  that  was  positively  Eastern. 

Moira  had  been  nearly  late  for  Mass.  On  her  way  out 
to  feed  the  chickens  that  morning,  her  father  had  met  her 

110 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

in  the  yard.  He  had  not  yet  donned  his  Sunday  coat, 
but  was  in  the  homespun  of  every-day  use.  His  dark  chin, 
however,  shorn  to  blue  smoothness,  rested  upon  the  start- 
ling whiteness  of  the  high  Sunday  collar. 

He  gave  his  daughter  an  unwontedly  bland  smile,  and 
addressed  two  or  three  observations  to  her:  on  "the  grand 
state  of  the  little  calves,  glory  be  to  God !"  and  his  con- 
viction that  the  hens  were  "strewing  the  place  with  eggs 
this  fine  morning."  And  then  he  remarked,  without  any 
apparent  relevance,  that  it  was  the  good  girleen  she  had' 
always  been,  and  he  and  "herself"  had  had  the  great  talk 
about  her,  last  night.  And,  "arrah,  wasn't  she  always 
his  favoryite?  Wouldn't  he  twiced  as  soon  have  her  than 
ayther  of  the  boys?  And  any  good  luck  that  came  her 
way,  wouldn't  they  be  thanking  God  for  it,  it  being  only 
what  she  deserved?" 

Moira  fixed  him  with  eyes  growing  wider  and  filling  with 
a  kind  of  fear.  He  went  on : — 

"Any  opposition  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  make  to 
Shane  O'Conor's  suit,  I  here  withdraw  it."  He  waved 
his  hand  loftily.  "Ye  have  my  parintal  blessing,  both  of 
yez."  He  dropped  his  pompous  tone  to  add  severely: 
"Look  here,  acushla,  don't  let  that  English  fellow  be 
snapping  your  fine  boy  away  from  under  your  nose.  Keep 
a  good  hould  of  him  now  that  you've  got  him;  for  onst 
they  get  him  over  there  in  England,  the  Lord  only 
knows ' 

The  fear  that  had  been  dawning,  was  suddenly  full 
grown  in  Moira's  gaze.  Tears  welled.  "Oh,  poor  Da  !v 
she  said,  and  looked  at  him  as  if  she  were  contemplating 
some  unexpectedly  revealed  hurt.  But  Mr.  Blake's  small 

111 


NEW  WINE 

green  eyes  were  looking  anywhere  but  at  his  daughter's 
face : — 

"Keep  a  good  hould  of  him,  my  girl,"  he  repeated. 

The  pitifulness  passed  from  Moira's  countenance, 
chased  by  a  rush  of  angry  blood. 

"If  it  was  to  be  that  way  with  him,"  she  said,  "I  wouldn't 
lift  me  little  finger.  I  wouldn't  do  that!"  She  shifted 
her  pan  of  meal  from  the  right  hand  to  the  left  and  held 
a  shapely  digit  under  her  father's  gaze.  "I  wouldn't  lift 
it  that  far  to  call  him  back." 

"Then  ye'll  never  be  Lady  Kilmore,  I  can  tell  you," 
cried  he,  shooting  out  his  chin,  with  an  exasperated  roar. 
She  made  him  no  answer,  but  walked  away;  whereat  he 
called  after  her  still  more  loudly,  still  more  furiously: 
"But  I'll  see  that  you  are.  I'll  have  no  young  fellow, 
be  he  forty  times  a  lord,  playing  fast  and  loose  with  a  girl 
of  mine !" 

When  Mrs.  Blake  came  down,  robed  for  Mass,  in  all 
the  glories  of  purple  silk  gown,  black  sati..  dolman  and 
bonnet  adorned  with  grapes,  she  was  scandalized  to  find 
her  daughter  still  in  her  morning  cotton,  staring  out  of 
the  kitchen  window  as  if  it  hadn't  been  Sunday  at  all. 

"Glory  be  to  God,  Moira,  the  bell  will  start  ringing 
this  minute,  and  you  the  way  you  are !" 

"I'm  not  going  to  walk  to  Mass  with  the  Da,"  said 
Moira.  She  turned  a  defiant  countenance  upon  her 
mother.  This  latter  was  so  completely  taken  aback  that 
she  could  only  gasp : — 

"Not  going  to  Mass !" 

"Not  with  the  Da,"  The  soft  curves  of  the  girl's 
countenance  set  into  obstinate  lines.  "He'd  be — he'd  be 

112 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

going  on  and  disgracing  me  with  every  one  we  meet.  I'd 
be  ashamed  of  my  life!" 

"What,  in  the  name  of  God " 

"I'm  ashamed  as  it  is,"  said  Moira.  Her  breast  heaved 
with  a  sob.  "I'll  follow  after.  There's  the  bell." 

She  flew  out  of  the  kitchen  and  up  the  stairs,  even  as 
her  father  marched  forth,  creaking  in  his  best  boots,  from 
the  ground-floor  bedchamber. 

"I  don't  know  what's  come  to  the  girls  nowadays  at 
all,"  said  Mrs.  Blake  astutely,  as  her  spouse  sent  a  ques- 
tioning look  round  the  room.  "There's  Moira  only  just 
in  from  the  chickens,  and  the  bell  going.  She'll  have  to 
folly  after,  I  told  her.  Musha,  hurry,  Blake,  or  it's  late 
we'll  be !  The  boys  have  gone  on  this  long  while." 

"Moira'll  have  to  mind  herself,"  said  Mr.  Blake  gloom- 
ily, "and  so  I  told  her.  You  ought  to  have  seen  that  she 
was  ready,  woman,  since  the  whole  of  Clenane  will  have 
their  eyes  on  her  to-day  and  she  as  good  as  Lady  Kilmore 
this  minute." 

"And  if  you  don't  hurry,  Da,"  said  Mrs.  Blake,  "every- 
body will  be  in  the  chapel  and  instead  of  walking  digni- 
fied, to  your  bench,  you  that's  more  than  ever  now  the 
chief  member  of  the  congregaton — and  you  know  you  are, 
Mr.  Blake — it's  shoving  and  pushing  you'll  be,  like  one 
of  them  poor  coyles  that's  been  squeezing  his  feet  into  his 
Sunday  boots  behind  the  sacristy  door,  after  his  five  mile 
barefoot  across  the  hills." 

The  farmer  had  already  stalked  on.»  The  wife  of  his 
bosom  certainly  knew  how  to  manage  him.  But  though 
she  drew  a  breath  of  relief  to  think  that  she  had  warded 
off  a  family  storm,  her  kindly  face  remained  perturbed, 
as  she  pattered  after,  genteelly  holding  up  her  flowing  silk 

113 


NEW  WINE 

skirts  so  as  to  display  kid  boots  with  patent  leather  toe- 
caps  and  elastic  sides. 

Moira  presently  came  along  in  her  gray  gown  and  the 
wide  straw  hat.  She  had  been  a  prey  to  agitations 
strange  indeed  for  her;  angry  with  her  father  and  with 
herself  for  being  angry.  She  had  been  thinking  as  she 
walked:  "If  I  had  the  whole  of  the  tossing  sea  in  my 
breast  I  couldn't  be  more  uneasy." 

It  was  not  that  she  doubted  Shane.  It  was  not  that 
she  believed  that,  over  there  in  England,  he  wouldn't  be 
thinking  every  moment  of  her  as  she  of  him.  True,  last 
night,  when  he  had  told  her  how  it  was  that  he  must  go, 
she  had  felt,  with  unerring  instinct,  that  his  spirit  leaped 
to  the  adventure,  even  though  it  meant  leaving  her.  But 
he  had  told  her  also  sweet,  unforgettable  things :  how  she 
would  always  be  the  first,  the  only  one;  the  girl  for  him, 
the  girl  he  meant  to  marry.  "If  we  were  parted  twenty 
years,  it  would  make  no  difference  to  me,"  he  had  assured 
her.  "Whatever  I  find  over  there,  whatever  I  do,  noth- 
ing will  ever  touch  my  love  of  you.  My  roots  are  in 
Clenane,  with  you,  and  I'd  come  back  and  marry  you  in 
the  end,  if  it  was  from  the  throne  of  England  itself." 

She  believed  him.  But  the  shadow  of  the  coming  sepa- 
ration was  over  her  tender  spirit.  Besides  this,  from  the 
moment  she  had  heard  the  news,  there  had  been  an  in- 
tangible dread  hovering  in  the  background  of  her 
thoughts.  Her  father's  words  had  suddenly  given  it 
shape.  If  that  was  the  way  people  were  going  to  look  at 
things ;  if  it  was  a  question  of  holding  him  to  a  word 
pledged  in  very  different  circumstances,  where  did  her 
duty  lie?  Yes,  even  though  he  wanted  to  fulfill  every 
vow,  might  not  the  finger  of  conscience  still  point  inex- 

114 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

orably  to  the  lonely  road  of  renunciation?  "If  I  had  only 
some  one  to  advise  me!"  she  thought.  Remembering 
Father  Blake,  her  heart  sank  still  lower:  "An  unequal 
match!"  If  he  had  said  that  then,  what  would  he  say 
now? 

But  that  Shane  should  have  waited  for  her,  outside  the 
chapel,  the  mere  sight  of  his  smile,  the  sound  of  his  voice, 
were  sufficient  to  produce  an  instant  appeasement.  She 
went,  with  a  sort  of  meek  pride,  by  his  side,  into  the 
crowded  chapel — proud  of  him,  meek  in  herself.  All  who 
looked  on  her  saw  her  crowned  with  this  double  loveli- 
ness. In  the  poor  village  there  was  not  one  envious 
thought  towards  her,  though  many  had  muttered,  "Set 
him  up !"  at  the  sight  of  Farmer  Blake's  almost  heraldic 
air. 

Yet,  as  Moira  prayed,  her  torment  began  again.  The 
more  fervently  she  prayed,  the  more  the  call  to  sacrifice 
seemed  urged  upon  her.  She  wanted  to  do  right,  to  do 
what  was  best  for  her  lover,  no  matter  what  it  cost  her. 
But  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  the  cruel  decision  that 
would  separate  them.  If  it  had  to  be  done,  it  must  be  by 
some  one  else's  strength.  So,  after  all,  with  tears  driven 
back  upon  her  heart,  she  resolved  to  let  Father  Blake  de- 
cide. "I'll  have  a  word  with  him  after  Mass,"  she 
thought,  "and  he'll  tell  me  what  to  do,  how  to  do  it.  And 
anyhow  he'll  speak  holy  things  to  me." 

So,  while  Shane  was  seized  upon  by  him  who  now  hoped 
so  aspiringly  to  be  his  father-in-law,  she  slipped  away 
to  the  priest's  house,  and  waited  in  the  parlor  for  his  re- 
turn. Her  face  was  flaming:  for  her  father  had  been 
very  blatantly  affectionate  and  appropriating  and  she 

115 


NEW  WINE 

had  caught  sight  of  the  strange  gentleman  watching  from 
the  other  side  of  the  churchyard  wall,  and  smiling  all  on 
the  one  side  of  his  face. 

"Father,  it  will  break  my  heart  out  and  out.  But  if 
you  say  I  must  do  it,  I  will.  I'll  give  him  up — if  it  would 
be  the  best  for  him,  I  mean." 

Moira's  pulses  almost  stopped  beating,  when,  having 
made  her  artless  plaint,  she  waited  for  Father  Blake  to 
speak. 

It  seemed  to  her  an  interminable  time  before  the  old 
man  replied :  his  eyes  were  fixing  her,  pale,  luminous, 
tragic,  out  of  their  cavernous  setting.  His  mouth  worked 
without  speech.  At  last  he  said : — 

"Look  at  here,  child.  I  have  taken  counsel  on  this 
with  Him  who  always  knows  what  is  good  for  us.  And 
it's  come  to  me  this  way :  you've  got  to  let  Shane  go  free 
over  to  England.  Wait  a  bit — I  mean  he's  got  to  feel 
he's  not  bound,  nor  you  either.  Now,  wait  a  bit,  child! 
Ye  see  yerself  it's  only  right,  things  being  so  changed, 
that  he  should  test  himself.  That's  what  I'm  saying:  test 
himself  before  taking  the  irrevocable  step.  But  if,  after 
a  while " 

"Oh,  father;  oh,  father !" 

"Well,  well,  hold  up,  child,  say,  a  year.  If  he  comes 
back  to  you  in  a  year — maybe  he'll  come  before — but  it 
would  be  right  to  wait  a  year — why,  then,  in  the  name  of 
God,  I'll  not  let  any  one  have  the  marrying  of  yez  but 
meself." 

The  tragedy  had  gone  out  of  his  gaze ;  and  there  was 
a  tremulous  smile,  not  very  far  from  tears  on  his  lips. 

"God  bless  you,  father!"  cried  Moira  fervently.  She 

116 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

was  all  radiance,  though  with  her,  too,  it  was  a  radiance 
blended  of  smiles  and  tears. 

An  eminently  sober  Clancy,  in  a  borrowed  Sunday  col- 
lar nearly  as  tall  as  Dan  Blake's,  picked  up  Mr.  Parker 
at  the  door  of  the  priest's  house  on  the  stroke  of  two, 
and  drove  away  with  him  along  the  Galway  road.  A 
Sunday  somnolence  was  over  the  little  village;  and  only 
Mrs.  Dooley  from  the  threshold  of  her  house  of  entertain- 
ment watched  the  departure. 

"Me  brave  Tomsey  Clancy !"  she  remarked  to  her  pot- 
man, with  a  fat  chuckle,  "looking  as  if  butter  wouldn't 
melt  in  his  mouth,  and  him  the  scandal  of  the  world,  last 
night !" 

Mr.  Parker  sat,  wrapped  in  his  rug,  more  intent  on 
maintaining  his  balance  on  this  singularly  ill-invented 
vehicle,  than  on  watching  the  shifting  loveliness  of  the 
scenery.  When  Clancy  suddenly  drew  up  with  a  clatter 
of  protesting  hoofs  the  traveler  nevertheless  was  very 
nearly  shot  on  his  head,  and  only  saved  himself  by  a  des- 
perate clutch. 

"What  the  devil !"  he  began.  He  did  not  often 

swear ;  it  was  a  sign  of  great  emotion. 

Clancy,  who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  car,  equaliz- 
ing the  weight,  turned  an  unperturbed  countenance  and 
pointed  with  the  butt  of  his  whip: — "It's  Mr.  Shane." 

"What?"  Mr.  Parker  had  never  felt  more  surprised. 
The  young  man  who  had  been  standing  at  a  crossing  of 
roads,  came  up  to  him.  He  had  a  frieze  coat  flung  over  his 
arm,  and  was  carrying  a  small  battered  portmanteau.  He 
looked  darkly  up  at  the  solicitor. 

"Since  I've  got  to  go,  I  thought  I'd  drive  to  Galway 

117 


NEW  WINE 

Town  with  you.  It'll  save  trouble  in  the  end.  We  can 
take  the  Dublin  mail  together  to-morrow.  Since  I've 
got  to  go,"  he  repeated,  his  frown  deepening.  Without 
waiting  for  a  reply,  he  threw  his  portmanteau  into  the 
well  of  the  car,  beside  Mr.  Parker's  superlative  leather 
case,  and  began  to  struggle  into  his  coat,  exclaiming  as 
he  did  so:  "Down  out  of  that,  Clancy,  and  up  on  the 
box  with  you!" 

The  change  was  effected,  and  the  car  had  already 
started  again,  with  its  new  passenger,  before  Mr.  Parker 
was  able  to  place  a  word. 

"This  is  a  very  sudden  idea  of  yours,  isn't  it,  Mr. 
O'Conor?"  he  remarked,  gingerly  turning  his  head  so  as 
to  catch  sight  of  the  young  sullen  profile. 

"Wasn't  it  what  you  wanted  me  to  do?" 

The  tone  matched  the  expression  on  the  face.  It  came 
to  Mr.  Parker  that  he  had  only  seen  Shane  O'Conor  smile 
once,  and  that  was  at  the  meeting  with  Moira  Blake.  It 
was  this  memory,  perhaps,  that  made  him  exclaim,  hur- 
riedly and  politely: — 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly.  I'm  delighted.  It's  ex- 
tremely sensible  of  you — much  the  best  thing!" 

Shane  shifted  perilously  round  and  gazed  full  at  the 
solicitor. 

"The  sooner  I  go,  the  sooner  I  come  back.  That's  the 
way  I  look  at  it." 

"Glory  be  to  God,  Misthcr  O'Conor,"  put  in  Clancy, 
whisking  round  in  his  turn  and  flourishing  his  whip,  "there 
isn't  one  of  us  that  would  doubt  you !  And  you  prom- 
ised to  the  flower  of  the  barony !" 

"Look  where  you're  driving,"  advised  Shane,  without 
unbending.  Then  he  once  more  addressed  his  fellow  trav- 

118 


THE  CHURCH  AND  THE  LAW 

eler,  and  observed:  "I  was  not  going  to 'have  them  keen- 
ing and  crying  about  me,  and  shouting  good-bys  when 
there's  no  call  for  it." 

"Thrue  for  you,"  interjected  the  irrepressible  jarvey. 

"And  Moira — the  girl  I  mean  to  marry" — Shane's  voice 
was  as  hard  and  sharp  as  a  knife  blade, — "is  entirely  of 
my  opinion." 

"Put  that  in  your  pipe,"  murmured  Clancy  to  the 
mare's  tail. 

Mr.  Parker  made  no  reply.  He  had  succeeded  in  his 
errand  beyond  what  he  could  have  hoped  yesterday.  And 
for  the  rest — his  wry  smile  was  lost  upon  a  colt  that 
stared  at  him  white-faced  over  the  interminable  stone  wall, 
but  it  certainly  expressed  skepticism  anent  the  durability 
of  the  softer  emotions  of  youth  brought  into  contact  with 
a  beguiling  world. 

Moira  and  Shane  had  parted  in  their  own  place  on  the 
rocks.  He  had  been  so  buoyant ;  he  had  waived  away  with 
such  wholehearted  scorn  her  attempt  to  carry  out  Father 
Blake's  instructions  and  set  him  free,  that  for  the  mo- 
ment she  had  felt  comforted  even  though  it  was  good-by. 

But  when  the  gallant  figure  disappeared  round  the  bend 
of  the  path,  she  had  to  admit  to  herself:  "It's  the  light 
of  my  eyes  that's  gone  from  me!"  Leprechaun,  lying 
submissively  at  her  feet,  as  Shane  had  ordered  him,  looked 
up  at  her  with  an  agony  of  question  in  his  gaze  and 
faintly  moaned. 

"It  won't  be  for  long,"  she  said  to  the  dog,  repeating 
his  master's  last  words,  and  braced  herself  morally  and 
physically  to  courage.  "If  Mammie  would  spare  me,  I'd 

119 


NEW  WINE 

go  back  to  the  convent  and  get  educated  for  him.     I'd  ask 
for  the  extras,  French  and  the  piano." 

Her  confidence  grew  with  the  guileless  plan.  There 
was  a  great  weight  off  her  conscience,  since  she  had  met 
it  so  squarely  and  discharged  herself  of  her  obligation, 
only  to  be  lovingly  laughed  at  for  her  pains. 

When  she  came  in  sight  of  the  widow  M'Gaw's  bar- 
nacle-dwelling, the  old  woman  was  sitting  on  her  doorstep 
as  usual,  her  head  bent  on  her  knees,  looking  more  like  a 
bundle  of  sea-weed  than  anything  human.  Moira  went 
up  to  her.  She  would  fain  have  avoided  conversation 
just  then,  but  it  was  not  in  her  to  pass  the  desolate  with- 
out at  least  the  alms  of  a  kindly  word. 

The  hag  lifted  her  head  and  shot  a  strange  glance  at 
her  through  those  dim  eyes,  which  were  somehow  so  un- 
cannily clear-sighted. 

"I  seen  him  go  by,"  she  remarked,  without  an- 
swering Moira's  greeting,  "and  him  running  and  not 
a  word  for  poor,  old,  decent,  respectable  Biddy !  He'd 
the  mark  of  travel  on  his  brow.  And  it's  far  he's  going — 
far  he's  going — far,  far,  he's  traveling  from  Clenane  and 
you !  Glory  be  to  God,  them's  terrible  roads  his  steps  is 
bent  for!  Will  he  ever  turn  back?  Pray  for  him,  alanna !" 

Moira's  heart  sank  like  a  stone.  She  told  herself  it 
was  unreasonable  to  pay  attention  to  such  a  poor  old 
crazy  creature  as  Biddy ;  nevertheless  the  specter  of  ulti- 
mate loss,  which  she  had  thought  laid,  rose  up  again,  and 
that  with  more  substance  than  before. 

The  gleam  went  out  of  the  crone's  eyes ;  she  stretched 
her  claw  with  the  professional  whine:  "Haven't  you  got 
a  penny  about  you?  I'm  out  of  'baccy  this  long  time, 
me  darlin'  girl." 

120 


X 


THE    DEATH-BED 

"WHAT  do  you  think  of  him?"  Lord  Kilmore  hardly 
touched  Mr.  Parker's  hand;  did  not  reply  at  all  to  the 
respectful,  tactfully  low-voiced  inquiry:  "I  trust  I  find 
you  better,  my  lord."  He  made  an  impatient  gesture 
towards  the  chair  placed  in  readiness  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed;  and,  propping  himself  on  his  elbow,  flung  the  ques- 
tion again:  "What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

The  hospital  nurse  had  just  closed  the  door  of  the 
dressing-room  upon  herself  with  conscious  discretion. 
Mr.  Parker,  as  he  sat  down,  glanced  round  as  if  to  make 
sure  he  was  alone  with  the  sick  man ;  not  that  he  cared  in 
the  least,  but  to  gain  time.  Lord  Kilmore  looked  dread- 
fully ill,  he  thought ;  certainly  the  eyes  that  were  fixed 
upon  him  were  fierce  with  an  unnatural  light.  It  was 
quite  clear  that  here  was  one  who  ought  to  be  spared  all 
possible  emotion — especially  that  of  anger.  Yet  how  was 
this  to  be  done?  What  to  say? 

"Well,  my  lord,"  he  ventured  at  last,  ineptly,  "you'll 
soon  see  for  yourself." 

"Do  you  think  I  sent  for  you  first  to  come  here  and 
tell  me  this?  Good  God,  man,  I  haven't  much  breath 
to  spare.  What's  he  like  ?  Out  with  it !" 

Mr.  Parker  plunged: 

"He's  a  regular  O'Conor.  A — a  very  handsome  young 
fellow.  He  is  indeed" — he  glanced  at  the  face  on  the 


NEW  WINE 

pillow,   ghastly   as   it   was,   and   was   struck — "  'pon   my 

word,  he's  more  like  your  lordship  than '      He  broke 

off.  Horror,  he  had  been  about  to  say :  "your  own  sons !" 
To  cover  the  unpardonable  blunder,  he  drew  a  whistling 
breath  and  proceeded:  "than  I  should  have  thought  pos- 
sible. A  fine,  handsome  fellow." 

"You've  said  that  before.  Come,  come,  Parker,  you 
know  what  I  want  to  hear.  What's  the  creature  like? 
How  has  he  grown  up?  A  savage  or  a  clod,  which?" 

"Oh,  not  a  clod,  certainly !" 

"Ha,  a  savage.  Savage  it  is.  Eats  with  his  knife, 
I  suppose.  A  brogue  as  long  as  your  arm.  Well,  it  is 
only  what  must  be  expected,  brought  up  by  an  Irish 
priest." 

The  twist  of  the  mouth,  the  flash  of  the  hollow  eye, 
were  as  scorn  incarnate.  Mr.  Parker  made  a  sympathetic 
grimace. 

"On  that  score,  I  am  afraid — 

"What?  Steeped  in  holy  water?  A  superstitious  sav- 
age !  Nice  look  out.  What  else  ?  Come,  how  old  is  he  ? 
Twenty-three,  isn't  it?  He's  not  married  into  the  next 
pig-stye  yet '  He  broke  off,  his  eye  pinning  the  un- 
happy solicitor.  "What — what?  Don't  tell  me  the  vil- 
lain's married!" 

"No,  no" — Mr.  Parker  stammered  in  his  eagerness. 
"Only  engaged." 

As  he  spoke,  he  became  aware  that  the  dressing-room 
door  had  been  reopened  and  that  the  nurse  was  advanc- 
ing into  the  room. 

"Now,  now,  now,"  she  said,  as  if  speaking  to  a  child, 
"I  cannot  allow  visitors,  Lord  Kilmore,  if  you  excite  your- 
self." 

122 


THE  DEATH-BED 

Her  patient  shifted  himself  on  his  pillows ;  and,  as  she 
afterwards  expressed  it  to  the  night-nurse,  "positively 
gnashed  his  teeth  at  her." 

"Get  me  a  glass  of  port.  And  you,  Parker,  go  down 
and  send  up" — his  livid  face  worked  with  a  spasm — 
"send  up  my  heir !" 

The  nurse  looked  at  the  solicitor;  nodded  and  moved 
away  noiselessly  to  fulfill  the  behest  of  the  sick  man  who 
had  fallen  back,  panting  and  exhausted  on  his  pillows. 
She  brought  him  the  wine.  It  was  strictly  against  doc- 
tor's orders,  but  nothing  mattered  now:  he  was  already 
so  far  beyond  the  help  of  human  wisdom. 

Shane  halted  just  within  the  door,  and  stood,  every 
nerve  on  the  alert.  Mr.  Parker  had  not,  as  has  been 
said,  a  lively  imagination ;  but  as  he  looked  at  him  he  was 
reminded  of  some  untamed  animal:  a  stag  at  gaze,  or  a 
wild  stot,  sniffing  danger  and  doubt. 

The  gaunt  hand  from  the  bed  beckoned: — 

"Don't  stand  there.  Come  near  me,  you !"  The  weak 
voice  was  imperious.  "Leave  us,  nurse.  And  you  too, 
Parker." 

Shane  walked  slowly  up  to  the  bed.  The  vast,  dark 
splendor  about  him,  the  thickness  which  muffled  his  tread, 
the  regulated  stateliness  which  pervaded  the  mansion  and 
which  had  laid  hold  of  him  from  its  very  doorstep ;  above 
all,  the  brooding  sense  of  tragedy  culminating  in  what 
even  his  inexperience  perceived  to  be  a  death  chamber — 
all  these  things  were  as  a  spell  upon  his  spirit. 

His  uncle  devoured  him  with  a  burning  gaze ;  and  again 
the  spasm  twisted  his  face.  Shane  thought  it  was  pain, 
and  rolled  an  anxious  eye.  What  was  he  to  do  if  the 

123 


NEW  WINE 

poor  man  were  "to  die  on  him"?  It  was  pain  indeed  that 
convulsed  Lord  Kihnore's  countenance,  and  to  the  death. 
But  the  end  was  not  yet. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said  harshly. 

Parker  was  right,  his  sons  had  been  less  of  O'Conors 
in  their  fair,  square  comeliness  than  this  savage  from  the 
west.  The  father  whose  heart  was  broken  ran  an  ap- 
praising eye  up  and  down  the  splendid  figure  which  even 
the  coarse,  ill-cut  clothes,  the  clumping  boots,  could  not 
disguise.  And  he  was  envious  for  the  dead !  His  accents 
had  still  a  more  grudging  harshness  as  he  said,  after  a 
pause : — 

"So  you've  got  it  all — or  rather,  you  will  have  it  all 
— very  soon !"  He  laughed.  "Good  God,  what  a  story  ! 
You  won't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  It's  not  my  fault, 
you  know,  that  you  have  not  been  brought  up  a  gentle- 
man." 

It  was  a  thrust  straight  at  the  breast.  Shane  jerked 
up  his  head.  His  uncle  was  an  old  blackguard,  of  that 
he  was  certain,  but  he  liked  straight  dealing,  and  he  sud- 
denly felt  they  were  of  one  blood. 

"Gentleman?     A  renegade,  you  mean." 

Blue  eyes  blazed  into  blue  eyes.  Had  any  one  been 
there  to  see  it,  the  likeness  between  the  two  faces — the 
young  face  instinct  with  life,  the  old  one  marked  by  death 
— would  have  been  startling. 

"Do  you  bandy  words  with  me?"  The  menace  in  Lord 
Kilmore's  air  was  sinister,  coming  as  it  did  from  a  dying 
man. 

"Mustn't  I  answer  you,  then?" 

"Look  here,"  Lord  Kilmore  again  propped  himself  up 
on  his  elbow,  "you  are  not  here  to  answer  me,  you  are  here 

124 


THE  {DEATH-BED 

to  listen.  I  shall  not  be  able  to  talk  to  any  one  very 
long.  There's  no  one  I  want  to  talk  to,  except  you,  and 
I've  saved  myself  for  it." 

Shane's  gaze  questioned.  It  was  not  a  sympathetic, 
but  a  darkling  attentiveness. 

"Understand  me — what  is  your  name? — Shane.  Ab- 
surd Irish  nonsense.  Understand  me.  For  you,  as  you 
are,  I  don't  care  a  hang.  I  don't  care  what  you  do  with 
yourself,  or  what  you  make  of  your  life.  But  as  my  heir, 
as  the  man  who  takes  the  place  my  son  would  have  had 
in  the  world,  for  you  as  Kilmore,  I  do  care.  I  don't 
know  why  I  should,"  he  went  on  a  little  wildly,  rolling  his 
head  from  side  to  side  on  the  pillow,  "it's  instinct,  atavism 
— it's — no  matter  what  it's  called — I  do  care.  I  can't 

die  with  any  kind  of  peace Peace?  rubbish!  I  can't 

die  with  any  kind  of  stoicism  for  thinking  of  the  mess  you 
are  going  to  make  of  things." 

There  were  many  words  Shane  did  not  understand  in 
this  speech,  but  though  he  was  inclined  to  think  the  sick 
man  was  wandering,  some  of  them  touched  him  nearly. 
He  felt  himself  common  enough,  inappropriate  enough, 
God  knew,  in  this  house  of  grandeur.  One  look  at  the 
bloodless  hand  on  the  purple  silk  counterpane  and  at  his 
own  brown,  toil-worn  fingers,  wa;s  sufficient  to  measure  the 
gulf  between  them.  He  parted  his  lips  for  speech,  but 
could  find  no  phrase  to  fit  his  thought.  His  thought,  in- 
deed, was  itself  confused.  He  was  humiliated,  and  yet 
afire  with  pride.  The  jeering,  bitter  voice  from  the  bed 
went  on: — 

"A  man's  last  words  are  supposed  to  carry  some  weight. 
Listen  to  mine.  I  am  the  only  near  relation  you  have  in 
the  world,  and  I  am  going  to  die.  There  is  one  thing 

125 


NEW  WINE 

I've  got  to  say  to  you:  cut  yourself  off  from  the  whole 
thing,  and  start  afresh." 

The  young  man's  intent  face  whitened. 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  the  whole  thing,  if  I  may 
ask?" 

"I  mean  Clenane — that's  what  it's  called,  isn't  it? — 
that  miserable  Irish  village  of  yours.  Clenane  and  the 
rebel,  Fenian  lot,  priests  and  ah" — and  the  farm  boys,  your 
associates,  and  the  farm  girl  your —  He  paused,  and 

with  a  sneer,  dropped  the  word :  "your  fiancee." 

Shane  jumped  to  his  feet. 

"My  fancy? — is  that  what  you  say?  I'll  not  hear  such 
a  name  from  any  man's  lips  for  the  girl  I  love.  Take  this 
from  me — and  take  it  to  the  Judgment  Seat,  and  maybe 
it'll  help  you  there — if  you  were  to  rise  out  of  the  grave 
at  me,  you'd  not  turn  my  heart  from  Clenane.  No,  nor 
from  my  faith,  nor  my  friends,  nor" — his  voice  took  a 
sudden  lowered  note  of  music — "nor  from  her  I  mean  to 
make  my  wife." 

He  swung  on  his  heel  and  flung  himself  out  of  the 
room ;  nearly  knocking  over  Mr.  Parker,  who  stood  in  anx- 
ious watch  just  outside  the  door. 

"Give  me  the  rest  of  the  glass  of  wine,"  said  Lord  Kil- 
more  to  the  nurse,  who  had  once  again  hurried  in  at  the 
sound  of  raised  voices. 

He  lay,  shrunken  in  his  pillows  as  if  all  vital  essence 
had  suddenly  left  him.  After  a  gulp  he  pushed  the  glass 
away. 

"A  devil! — a  young  devil!"  he  muttered.  Then: 
"Pity,"  he  said  to  himself — "there  is  stuff  there.  What's 
that  you  say,  nurse?  Yes,  send  Parker  in,  I  can  still 
cut  him  out  of  something." 

126 


BOOK  II 

My  soul  hath  been  delivered  as  a  sparrow  out  of  the  net  of 
the  fowlers;  the  snare  is  broken  and  we  are  delivered. 

— PSALMS 


THE  EYES  IN   THE   PORTRAIT 

"WHO  would  think  of  finding  you  here !" 

Young  Lord  Kilmore  started  and  turned  sharply,  to 
face  the  one  man  in  the  whole  of  London  with  whom  it 
might  be  said,  he  was  intimate. 

"And  why  shouldn't  I  be  here,  as  well  as  another?" 

It  is  the  Irish  way  to  answer  question  by  question :  and 
Shane  had  remained  Irish  in  thought,  speech,  and  feeling. 
Nevertheless,  he  was  singularly  altered  since  the  day  when, 
some  sixteen  months  ago,  he  had  stood  by  his  uncle's 
death-bed.  He  had  learned  very  quickly,  for  he  was  alert 
of  wit,  how  to  wear  the  clothes  of  a  gentleman,  how  to 
speak  like  a  gentleman — approximately,  for  the  Hibernian 
intonation  was  ineradicable  on  his  tongue;  how  to  walk 
in  the  street,  and  comport  himself  in  the  house,  after  gen- 
tlemanly conventions. 

As  he  now  stood  in  the  square  room  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  there  was  little  to  differentiate  him  from  the 
other  smart  society  youths  who  sauntered  about  in  at- 
tendance upon  pretty  women,  save  a  certain  air  of  shy 
aloofness ;  a  fine  carriage  of  head  and  shoulders,  more 
vigorous  movements  and  less  ready  speech. 

The  silk  hat,  of  latest  pattern,  was  set  at  a  slightly 
rakish  angle  on  the  close-cropped  black  head.  The  clean- 
shaven, fine-featured  face  beneath  had  lost  its  tan  and 
grown  harder  of  expression,  intangibly  matured.  Shane 

129 


NEW  WINE 

had  learned  to  carry  gloves,  though  he  never  could  endure 
to  wear  them.  He  held  them  now,  between  fingers  that 
were  still  brown,  with  a  catalogue  presented  to  him  at 
the  door,  and  a  fine  gold-mounted  malacca  cane.  He  had 
a  fancy  for  a  good  stick  and  he  could  indulge  his  fancies. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  be  at  a  private  view  as  well  as  your- 
self?" he  said,  and  there  was  a  hint  of  offense  in  his  voice. 

The  other  laughed.  He  knew  Kilmore  to  be  a  queer- 
tempered  fellow. 

"Why  shouldn't  you,  indeed?" 

The  speaker  was  a  fair  young  man  of  slight  build  and 
medium  height,  dwarfed  now  by  his  friend's  inches.  He 
had  the  complexion  of  a  girl,  appeared  strangely  young, 
though  he  was  four  years  older  than  Kilmore,  and  had 
a  gentle  innocence  of  manner,  a  soft  speech,  that  covered 
an  amazing  amount  of  impertinence.  Valentine  Blythe 
could  say  the  most  audacious  thing  in  a  dovelike  tone, 
and  blush  thereafter  engagingly.  He  was  the  first  favorite 
with  many  dowagers ;  and  "that  nice  young  Mr.  Blythe" 
was  invited  to  houses  where  middle-Victorian  principles 
prevailed — they  still  existed  in  "nineteen-fourteen."  But 
he  was  yet  more  in  demand  in  rapid  bachelor  circles.  Val 
Blythe  could  keep  a  club  dinner  table,  or  a  worn-out  sup- 
per party  amused,  where  the  finest  intellect  would  have 
failed.  He  had  a  whole  series  of  imitations  of  different 
great  hostesses  and  distinguished  old  gentlemen,  which 
afforded  high  diversion.  Nothing,  and  nobody,  was  sacred 
to  him ;  and,  in  a  society  which  had  no  ideal  beyond  amuse- 
ment, he  was  easily  persona  grata. 

Why  he  should  have  attached  himself  to  Lord  Kilmore 
might,  at  first  sight,  have  seemed  inexplicable.  But  the 
reasons  were,  after  all,  fairly  obvious.  The  young  savage 

130 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

who  had  so  romantically  inherited  wealth  and  position  was 
a  new  sensation,  and  was,  moreover,  excellent  "copy." 

Mr.  Blythe's  imitation  of  Lord  Kilmore  on  his  first 
introduction  to  a  celebrated  tailor,  was  a  priceless  item 
in  his  repertory. 

He  had  instituted  himself  bear-leader;  and  had  found 
Shane  both  interesting  and  attractive.  There  was  almost 
affection  and  a  certain  pride  of  achievement  in  the  glance 
with  which  his  prominent  pale  green  eye  now  ran  him  up 
and  down. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  he  repeated.  "You  are  a  good 
deal  more  worth  looking  at  than  those  daubs.  If  there's 
nothing  here  likely  to  appeal  to  you,  you  appeal  uncom- 
monly to  the  crowd." 

"I  have  found  something  that  appeals  to  me." 

Shane  spoke  slowly.  And,  as  he  spoke,  he  turned  on 
his  heel  and  planted  himself  once  more  firmly  before  the 
picture  he  had  been  contemplating  when  he  was  accosted. 
Blythe's  eyes  wandered  in  the  same  direction. 

"I  say,"  he  exclaimed  and  bent  forward  to  examine 
closer.  "Who's  done  it?  Jolly  clever,"  he  went  on. 
Then,  stepping  back  to  get  another  angle,  he  nearly 
knocked  over  a  spreading  Jewess  in  cinnamon  satin  and 
apologized  airily  as  in  parenthesis :  "Beg  pardon,  I'm 
sure!"  to  inquire  again,  "I  say,  Kil,  who  is  it  by?" 

"I  don't  care  who  it's  by,"  said  Kilmore.  He  still  spoke 
in  a  pondering  tone;  and  the  fashionable  crowd  swayed 
about  him,  whisperingly,  even  audibly  commenting  upon 
him,  for  it  was  true  he  excited  a  great  deal  of  attention, 
without  his  being  in  the  least  aware  of  it.  "I  want  to 
know,  who  is  it?" 

"Why,  my  good  lad,  haven't  you  got  your  catalogue? 

131 


NEW  WINE 

It's  Lady  Hobson,  of  course."  His  voice  dropped  to 
rather  sickly  sentimentality.  "Dear  Venetia!"  he  mur- 
mured. 

"Lady  Hobson.     Who  is  she?" 

"Dear  boy,  just  let  me  see  first  who's  the  fellow  that's 
done  her.  If  it's  not  Lavery,  it's  one  of  the  newer  ones. 
The  cleverest  thing,  upon  my  word !"  He  drew  the  cata- 
logue from  Shane's  fingers.  "Excuse  me,  old  Lady  Maule- 
verer's  clawed  mine." 

"Who  is  Lady  Hobson?" 

Shane  repeated  his  question  with  the  same  level,  de- 
termined accents  as  before.  He  very  seldom  spoke  to  his 
new  friends  with  the  old  impulsiveness;  that  was  part  of 
the  change  in  him.  His  companion  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  pages  he  was  turning  over  with  an  odd,  quizzical  look. 
"  'Who  is  Sylvia,  what  is  she?'  "  he  quoted.  Then,  seeing 
Shane's  frown,  he  added,  speaking  very  quickly  with  his 
mellifluous  insolence:  "Lady  Hobson  is  the  wife  of  Sir 
Timothy  Hobson,  at  present.  She's  a  dear.  I'm  awfully 
fond  of  her." 

"You  know  her !"  The  words  came  with  a  spurt  of  the 
old  eagerness. 

Valentine  broke  off  short  to  survey  Shane,  pondering. 
The  color  raced  across  his  fair  face,  but  his  eyes  were  full 
of  calculation. 

"Certainly,  I  know  her,  as  I  thifck  my  remarks  imply. 
But,  I  suppose,  dear  boy,  you  really  mean  to  convey  to 
me  a  desire  to  share  the  privilege." 

Shane  crimsoned  in  his  turn.  But  unlike  Valentine's 
purely  physical  change  of  color,  his  blush  sprang  from 
a  real  emotion. 

"Do  you  mean  you'll  introduce  me?" 

132 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

"Och,  sure,  I'll  introduce  you!"  Valentine  mimicked 
the  brogue;  then,  meeting  a  steel-blue  flash  from  young 
Kilmore's  eye,  he  slipped  his  hand  affectionately  through 
his  arm.  "As  a  matter  of  fact,  Kil,  I  was  just  thinking 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  could  be  so  good  for  you 
as  the  friendship  of  a  woman — a  married  woman.  Now, 
Venetia — how  she  could  ever  have  linked  that  sweet  name 
of  hers  with  such  a  dreadfully  sounding  one  as  Hobson ! 
Ah,  Kil,  money,  money!  It  rang  gold,  once! — Never 
mind.  Venetia  is  the  woman  for  you.  I  feel,  my  dear 
fellow,  that  your  social  education  demands  that  finish 
which  only  a  feminine  touch  can  give.  You  like  me  to  be 
frank:  the  touch  of  Venetia's  delicate  hands — the  artist 
has  not  flattered  them,  they  are  just  as  exquisite.  I  al- 
ways said  if  a  soul  had  hands  they  would  be  like  Venetia's. 
Devilish  clever!  Just  one  moment,  Kilmore,  I  must  see 
the  name.  Ah,  un  des  jeunes!  I  thought  as  much.  A  bit 
of  a  genius.  Best  thing  he's  done  yet.  Look  at  it,  Kil !" 

Shane  did  not  require  the  injunction.  He  was  con- 
templating the  portrait  with  intentness,  and  with  equal 
intentness  listening  to  the  easy  patter  of  his  companion. 

He  had  come  to  the  private  view  merely  to  fill  an  empty 
hour.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  emptiness  in  his  life  just 
now;  the  old  interests  were  cast  out,  the  new  ones  did 
not  fill  the  void.  His  attention  had  been  caught,  Irishman 
that  he  was,  by  the  green  of  the  scarf  which  vividly  draped 
the  figure  of  the  picture;  and,  drawing  closer,  he  was 
caught  by  something  very  different. 

Grace,  poetry,  pathos  were  embodied  in  a  woman's  love- 
liness before  him.  The  artist  who  had  painted  this  por- 
trait was,  as  Mr.  Blythe  had  said,  "a  bit  of  a  genius." 
Besides  genius,  he  had  the  cleverest  audacities.  The 

133 


NEW  WINE 

ethereal  frailty  of  the  figure,  the  slightly  drooping  head 
on  the  long  throat,  the  narrow,  pale  face,  were  limned 
with  a  most  exquisite  delicacy  against  a  background  of 
dead  white.  The  eyes,  looking  up,  with  a  gaze  of  sad 
appeal,  seemed  to  hold  all  the  color  of  her  countenance, 
in  their  strange  violet.  One  hand  fashioned — as  Valen- 
tine had  not  inaptly  implied — with  a  kind  of  spirit  beauty, 
held  together  against  her  breast  the  folds  of  the  green 
scarf  upon  which  the  painter  had  lavished  all  the  emerald 
fires  of  his  palette.  Just  at  the  opening  under  the  throat 
was  visible  the  sheen  of  pearls,  pearls  of  unusual  size. 

The  whole  presentment  subtly  gave  the  impression  of 
a  being  too  frail  for  a  rough  world.  One  could  have  sworn 
that  the  slender  figure  shrank  from  those  rich  wrappings, 
but  that  it  had  to  protect  itself  from  some  invisible  airs 
for  fear  of  being  blown  away.  The  hand  had  a  movement 
as  if  to  conceal  the  splendor  of  the  jewels  some  blundering 
generosity  had  cast  about  a  form  which  nothing  grosser 
than  a  flower  should  have  adorned.  The  lips  were  parted 
as  upon  a  smile  that  quivered  into  a  sigh.  And  the  eyes 
appealed,  appealed ! 

Shane  had  never  seen,  had  never  dreamed  of,  such  a 
creature  in  this  mortal'  sphere. 

"What  ails  her?"  he  asked  himself.  "What  is  it  she 
wants  ?" 

The  eyes  he  was  gazing  into  were  looking  straight  back 
at  him.  They  cried  to  him:  "Help  me!"  .  .  .  And  here 
was  his  friend,  Val  Blythe,  offering  to  take  him  to  her. 

"When  will  you  do  it?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"Do  what?" 

"Bring  me  to  Lady — what  is  her  name?" 

"To  Venetia?"  put  in  Mr.  Blythe  impishly. 

134- 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

"Venetia,"  said  Shane  slowly.  Then  once  again  he 
darkly  flushed.  The  name  had  a  mysterious  charm,  which 
filled  the  vision.  It  was  unknown  to  his  tongue,  and  be- 
cause of  that  the  more  stirred  him.  But  he  seemed  to 
himself  to  be  taking  a  liberty.  "I  couldn't  be  calling  her 
that  way,"  he  said  in  grave  rebuke.  "I  haven't  the  right. 
Nor  perhaps  you  either,"  he  added,  with  a  glint  of  anger. 

"Lady  Hobson,  then — Hobson,"  Blythe  laughed.  "Rub 
it  into  your  memory.  I  call  that  the  insult  to  her.  You're 
in  something  of  a  hurry,  aren't  you,  Kil?  Regularly 
bowled  over!  I'd  bring  you  to  see  her  this  moment,  with 
all  the  pleasure  in  life,  only  she  happens  to  be  on  the 
west  coast  of  Scotland." 

The  eager  light  in  Shane's  face  went  out.  A  blank 
disappointment  swept  over  him.  Again  his  bear-leader 
laughed. 

"My  dear  Kil,  you're  as  good  as  a  play !  The  west 
coast  is  not  an  inaccessible  spot.  And  I'm — by  Jove,  I 
really  think  I  am  the  most  good-natured  fellow  in  the 
world.  Come,  dear  boy,  we're  stopping  the  traffic ;  and 
old  Lady  Mauleverer  has  got  her  parrot  eye  on  me.  Let 
us  trot  to  the  drawings  and  plans,  it's  always  pretty 
empty,  and  there  we  can  talk  quietly  over  ways  and 
means." 

Shane  gave  a  last  look  at  the  fugitive  figure,  and  obeyed 
the  pressure  of  Valentine's  hand  on  his  elbow.  When 
they  reached  the  room  devoted  to  the  less  popular  display, 
where  indeed  only  a  few  thin  groups  were  sauntering,  Mr. 
Blythe  drew  his  companion  down  upon  a  settee  and  ex- 
claimed : — 

"Now,  unburden  your  soul." 

Shane  gave  him  that  glance,  half  fierce,  half  shy,  like 

135 


NEW  WINE 

a  wild  thing  on  the  spring,  which  had  struck  Mr.  Parker 
in  the  late  lord's  death  chamber.  Valentine  was  pretty 
well  accustomed  to  the  expression.  It  amused  him  to 
arouse  it;  but  he  always  recognized  the  warning. 

"I  only  mean,  I'm  ready  to  be  of  use,"  he  said  meekly, 
looking  down  at  his  immaculate  boots. 

"Do  you  reallv  mean  that?" 

"Rather !" 

This  was  a  word  that  had  once  puzzled  the  peasant- 
bred  youth.  He  knew  what  it  meant  now.  Placated,  he 
exclaimed : — 

"Thank  you,  Val.  It's  the  real  good  friend  you  are. 
I  know  that.  Ah,  don't  be  teasing  me,  man!  That  pic- 
ture has — the  sight  of  the  face  there —  He  choked, 
and  went  on  doggedly :  "Faith  and  there's  something  that 
I've  seen  in  the  portrait  of  Lady  Hobson — have  I  got  it 
right? — Lady  Hobson,  that  makes  me  want  to  know  her, 
more  than  I've  ever  wanted  anything  since  I  came  to  Eng- 
land. Now,  you're  thinking  I'm  the  most  extraordinary 
fellow " 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all."  Valentine's  tone  was  soothing, 
but  his  eyes  danced.  "The  most  ordinary  thing  in  the 
world,  dear  boy.  We've  all  got  to  go  through  it.  But 
you're  young,  you  see,  and  untried.  And  Venetia  must 
seem  rather  a  revelation  after  that  place  of  yours,  Clenane 
— or  whatever  its  name  is." 

A  stillness  came  over  Shane.  He  sat  rigid,  his  mouth 
parted  upon  the  words  that  Blythe's  last  phrase  had 
frozen  on  it.  Untried,  was  he?  The  image  of  Moira 
rose  before  him,  with  eyes  of  mournful  tenderness,  of 
brooding  love.  Moira,  tall  and  strong  and  brave,  with  the 
toil-worn  hand  and  the  sunburnt  cheek ;  with  her  prinfc 

136 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

gown,  her  spotless  apron,  sweet  of  the  lavender.  Molra 
and  Clenane,  the  old  simple  things  that  had  been  his  all; 
that  had  filled  his  life;  and  that  had  fallen  away  from 
him !  He  could  not  hear  them  dismissed  in  this  light  con- 
tempt without  wincing.  His  heart  swelled.  Almost  the 
great  voice  of  the  sea  was  in  his  ears,  and  the  tang  of 
the  salt  airs  in  his  nostrils. 

Valentine  watched  him  sideways  under  his  eyelashes. 
Never  was  there  any  one  that  kept  close  counsel  like 
Shane.  Those  who  were  now  his  constant  associates  knew 
nothing  of  the  years  of  his  early  youth,  save  what  all  the 
world  knew,  and  what  was  unmistakably  to  be  inferred 
from  his  rustic  simplicities:  that  he  had  been  brought  up 
among  peasants.  Yet  little  was  there  about  Shane  of 
the  conventional  Irish  peasant ;  and  those  who  were  famil- 
iar with  Irish  folk  were  surprised  at  his  quickness,  his 
swift  certainty  of  gesture  and  speech;  the  air  with  which 
he  held  his  head,  the  fashion  in  which  he  set  his  swinging 
steps.  While  they  laughed  at  a  hundred  blunders,  at 
turns  of  mind  and  words  that  placed  him  suddenly  apart 
from  his  company,  he  was  something  so  vastly  different 
from  the  clod  or  the  "bounder"  they  expected,  that  his 
presence  began  to  be  courted  as  that  of  a  celebrity. 

He  had  been  invited  to  exclusive  country  house  parties ; 
and  those  who  had  seen  him  ride  and  shoot  welcomed  him 
as  a  sportsman.  "Gad,  he's  a  flyer,"  was  the  verdict 
of  youths  with  a  kindred  taste,  while  an  elderly  politician 
of  distinguished  birth  and  fine  culture  had  set  the  hall 
mark  of  his  rare  approval  upon  him,  by  declaring  that  he 
for  one  would  ask  for  nothing  better  than  to  sit  and  watch 
young  Kilmore :  the  Greek  ideal  reincarnated. 

Added  to  which  he,  the  catch  of  the  season,  was  as 

137 


NEW  WINE 

shy  of  women's  society  as  a  cloistered  monk.  It  was 
small  wonder  that  Valentine  Blythe  should  feel  puzzled 
as  he  now  surreptitiously  scanned  his  face.  Just  one  mo- 
ment before  he  had  been  making  merry  in  his  sophisticated 
soul  over  the  small  psychological  drama  unexpectedly 
unfolded  before  him:  Love  at  first  sight — and  that,  at 
sight  of  a  picture.  Shane  Kilmore,  the  Wild  Boy  of  the 
West,  and  Venetia — it  was  really  too  funny !  But  how 
apropos,  how  perfect,  how  indispensable ! 

He  had  expressed  his  sincerest  conviction,  when  he  had 
declared  that  his  own  work  of  education  had  come  to  a 
standstill;  that  Shane  now  needed  a  woman's  touch,  and 
that  he  could  not  fall  into  better  hands  than  those  of 
Venetia.  Dear,  delicate,  subtle  Venetia — and  Shane — ce 
garfon  tout  neuf!  Val  Blythe  often  expressed  his 
thoughts  in  up-to-date  French. 

Here  was  amusement  afoot  for  the  onlooker!  Indeed, 
Valentine  would  be  more  than  that,  he  would  be  the  in- 
strument. He  had  been  promising  himself  not  to  miss  a 
single  shade  of  the  comedy,  when  the  expression  of  Shane's 
face  bade  him  pause.  He  was  himself  a  youth  of  intuition. 

"Confound  it,"  he  mused,  "the  fellow's  thinking  of  an 
old  love — and  I  who  believed  him  virgin  soil!"  The  new 
idea  produced  a  sense  of  irritation.  Here  had  he  been 
spending  his  best  energies  for  months  on  the  barbarian ! 
There  was  actual  tragedy  in  Shane's  set  features.  Just 
the  kind  of  fool  to  take  this  sort  of  thing  tragically;  to 
destroy  the  most  delightful  possibilities  that  had  ever 
opened  before  any  human  being  by  some  inconvenient  twist 
of  conscience ;  to  let  himself  be  dragged  down  to  the  depths 
of  one  of  his  own  bogs  by  the  clasp  of  a  woman  he  was  no 
longer  in  love  with. 

138 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

"Of  course,"  he  said  aloud,  with  an  exaggeration  of  his 
usual  flippancy,  "I'm  only  jesting.  You  are  such  a  solemn 
fellow,  Kil ;  you  quite  belie  your  Irish  reputation,  unless, 
indeed" — the  inconvenient  color  rushed  into  Valentine's 
countenance — "you  were  making  the  joke — pulling  my 
leg,  as  people  say  over  here.  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  tear 
off  to  the  Scottish  coast.  It's  a  beastly  climate.  Scot- 
land's not  warm  through  till  the  end  of  August.  And  I 
hate  fishing.  I  loathe  country  houses." 

Shane  turned  upon  his  friend  a  gaze  that  justified  the 
accusation  of  solemnity. 

"And  why,  in  the  name  of  God,  should  you  go  up  there, 
if  you  don't  want  to?" 

"To  take  you — ingrate!" 

"Me?" 

"Even  thee.  We  are  pretty  lax  in  society  now,  and  all 
that ;  but  we  haven't  quite  come  to  the  point  of  walking 
into  a  man's  house  just  because  we  admire  the  portrait 
of  his  wife." 

"Will  you  speak  plain,  for  once,  and  tell  me  what  you're 
driving  at?" 

"Speak  plain  yourself,  Kil.  Do  you  want  to  know 
Venetia?" 

"I  do." 

Shane  gave  the  asseveration  after  the  Irish  mode.  And 
Valentine  Blythe  laughed  out  loud. 

"You've  said  that  as  if  it  was  the  marriage  service. 
You're  not  pulling  my  leg,  then?" 

Shane  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I  am  not,"  he  cried  violently.  "You're — you're  like 
the  flies  about  the  horses." 

"Steady,  steady !"  The  bear-leader  got  up  in  his  turn. 

139 


NEW  WINE      • 

*Kil,  I'm  the  incarnation  of  friendship.  Here  am  I,  ready 
to  sacrifice  myself,  cut  the  best  days  of  the  season  and 
take  you  to  Creewater.  I  think  it  had  better  be  Whit- 
suntide. It  sounds  more  natural  to  propose  ourselves  for 
Whitsuntide,  don't  you  think?  Of  course,  you  know 
nothing  about  such  things,  dear  boy.  But  you  will  soon." 

"I  wouldn't  like  to  be  thrusting  myself '  began 

Shane  slowly. 

"Thrusting  yourself?  Pooh!  nonsense!  Venetia  will 
say  no,  quick  enough,  if  she  doesn't  want  us.  But  she'll 
be  delighted.  Oh,  yes,  bless  my  soul !"  Blythe  was  seized 
with  an  inner  chuckle  over  some  point  of  humor  that  he 
enjoyed  all  the  more  because  it  was  so  completely  lost 
on  the  innocence  of  his  companion.  "She'll  just  love  to 
have  you.  It's  awfully  dull  for  her  up  there,  poor  girl. 
Frightfully  hard  lines  that  Tim  should  be  up  a  tree,  when, 
really,  the  only  thing  that  justified  his  existence  as  a  hus- 
band for  her  was — well,  the  setting.  I'll  tell  her  to  tell 
him  what  a  sportsman  you  are.  You  can  kill  a  salmon,  I 
suppose." 

"Is  it  kill  a  salmon?" 

The  saturnine  gravity  of  Lord  Kilmore's  countenance 
was  broken  up  with  glints  of  mirth. 

"I've  no  doubt,"  cried  Blythe  peevishly,  "that  there 
isn't  any  horrid,  barbarous  amusement  you're  not  pro- 
ficient in.  Personally  all  my  sympathies  are  with  the 
fox  and  the  salmon.  But  you'll  go  down  with  Tiny  Tim, 
right  enough." 

"Tiny  Tim?" 

Valentine  was  again  moved  by  his  private  pleasantry. 

"Sir  Timothy  Hobson's  nickname,  to  be  precise.  You'll 
fitee  its  appropriateness  when  you  meet.  I'll  write,  then, 

HO 


THE  EYES  IN  THE  PORTRAIT 

and  suggest  that  we  should  visit  Creewater — that's  the 
name  of  Hobson's  place  up  there  on  the  coast.  You  have 
guessed  that.  Bright  boy!  as  they  say  in  America.  Oh, 
I'll  write  one  of  my  graceful  letters — you  may  have  noted 
that  I  have  a  choice  style — and  I'll  say :  I'm  longing  to  be 
out  of  the  racket,  and  the  dust,  and  the  heat,  and  the 
emptiness,  and  all  that.  And  wiU  dear  Venetia  give  me  a 
few  days  of  the  lovely  peace  and  serenity  of  her  surround- 
ings, and  all  that.  And  may  I  bring  my  friend,  Lord 
Kilmore,  to  whom  I  would  really  like  to  show  what  a  coun- 
try house  can  be  under  the  ideal  hostess,  and  all  that. 
And  what  an  Admirable  Crichton  my  friend  Kilmore  is  in 
everything  connected  with  sport,  and  all  that.  And  she'll 
write  back  how  awfully  pleased  she  and  Sir  Timothy  will 
be  to  see  us  up  there,  and  all  that.  Whitsuntide.  Can 
you  wait  four  weeks?" 

He  planted  himself  before  his  friend,  a  veritable  Puck  of 
mischief  peeping  from  every  line  of  his  quivering  face. 
The  other  had  gone  back  to  gravity. 

"I  can." 

"The  letter  shall  go  this  very  night.  I  say,  whither 
away?" 

Kilmore  made  no  answer,  save  by  a  valedictory  wave 
of  the  hand.  There  was  something  peremptory  in  the 
gesture :  it  bade  Blythe  not  follow. 

"If  I  don't  take  care,"  thought  that  young  man,  gazing 
after  the  retreating  figure,  with  no  very  pleasant  expres- 
sion, "my  barbarian  will  be  getting  too  tall  for  his  boots. 
'Pon  honor,  there's  a  lot  of  the  old  lord  in  him,  and  a 
precious  disagreeable  lot  it  is.  Well,  Venetia  will  tame 
him." 

Whcr  7\  *"-.*.  Valentine  Blythe  passed  through  the  great 

111 


NEW  WINE 

room,  about  five  minutes  later,  he  saw  Shane  standing 
before  the  portrait  of  the  lady  with  the  green  scarf,  his 
hands  behind  him,  rooted  in  contemplation,  even  as  he  had 
found  him.  He  wagged  his  head  and  passed  deliberately 
between  the  picture  and  his  friend,  without  Shane  being 
aware  of  the  circumstance. 

The  gilded  youth  went  grinning  down  the  great  stairs. 
The  joke  was  really  excellent!  But  he  would  not  share 
it  with  any  one  yet. 


II 


SMOKE   OF   THE   PAST 

SHANE  had  refused  to  live  at  Kilmore  House ;  the  place, 
he  declared,  gave  him  the  cold  shudders.  Mr.  Parker, 
with  the  air  of  one  privately  deciding  that  it  was  no  more 
than  he  expected,  had  thereupon  dryly  advised  him  to  let 
the  mansion  and  go  into  rooms,  a  counsel  which  his  client 
had  followed.  Not  having  yet  the  benefit  of  Mr.  Blythe's 
leadership,  he  had  allowed  the  lawyer  to  choose  a  fitting 
domicile. 

Therefore  was  he  established  in  a  large  pompous  suite 
in  Buckingham  Gate,  furnished  in  a  'style  which  Blythe 
never  failed  to  remark,  each  time  he  crossed  the  threshold, 
positively  made  him  ill.  Nevertheless,  Shane  declined 
either  to  move  away  or  to  alter  them.  Every  place  in 
London,  in  his  opinion,  was  stuffy.  Here  were  big  win- 
dows, anyhow,  if  they  were  draped  with  maroon  velvet 
curtains.  He  could  not  see  that  Valentine's  own  spindle- 
legged  furniture  was  so  much  more  to  be  admired  than  his 
saddle-back  settees  and  deep  leather  arm-chairs. 

"It's  mine  that  are  more  comfortable,  anyhow.  And 
those  black  walls  of  yours  would  make  a  fellow  think  he 
was  having  the  horrors.  And  what  is  to  me  if  my  clock 
is  mock  bronze,  so  long  as  it  tells  the  time?" 

What  could  a  cultivated  youth  like  his  new  friend 
do,  but  shrug  his  shoulders?  How,  indeed,  argue  with 
a  mind  so  devoid  of  selective  instinct  as  to  see  nothing 

143 


NEW  WINE 

to  choose  between  a  Viennese  atrocity  and  an  exquisite 
piece  of  red  Buhl?  How  discuss  such  a  delicate  thing  as 
art  at  all  with  one  who  had  never  even  heard  the  name, 
and  certainly — Valentine  was  sure  of  this — spelt  it  to 
himself  "bool,"  to  match  fool?  Blythe  gave  his  cynic 
snigger  at  his  own  cheap  joke;  yet  the  more  he  knew  of 
the  amazing  young  nobleman,  the  more  certainly  he  dis- 
covered that  Shane  was  no  fool. 

In  the  first  place,  the  wild  Irishman  always  knew  what 
he  wanted,  and  generally  succeeded  in  getting  it.  If  his 
wants  were  few,  uncomplicated,  manly,  they  were  definite, 
and  he  did  not  care  how  much  money  he  spent  to  satisfy 
them.  Already  he  had  a  stable  in  Rutlandshire  which  was 
the  envy  of  the  Quorn.  He  drove  a  rattling  pair  of  horses 
in  the  smart  mail  phaeton  along  the  roads  that  took  him 
most  swiftly  to  green  spaces.  To  Valentine's  dudgeon, 
he  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  motor-cars,  and  prefer- 
ably walked  to  what  parties  or  theaters  he  allowed  himself 
to  be  persuaded  to  attend.  He  announced  his  intention  of 
buying  a  yacht  which  would  be  the  finest  sailing  craft 
obtainable.  Steam,  he  vowed,  was  as  abominable  as  petrol. 
His  own  estates,  save  the  hunting-box,  he  avoided ;  and  all 
his  lawyer's  sermons,  and  all  the  appeals  of  the  local 
clergymen  and  estate  agents  had,  so  far,  failed  in  chang- 
ing this  attitude,  which  sprang  half  from  fierce  shyness  of, 
half  from  deeply  ingrained  antagonism  to,  that  English 
set  to  whom  he  felt  himself  alien  in  blood  and  spirit. 

"Sure  they  wouldn't  be  understanding  me,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  understanding  them,"  he  said  sullenly  to  the 
head  of  the  firm  who  had  called  in  person  to  remonstrate 
upon  so  great  a  neglect  of  territorial  obligations. 

"Understanding!  .  .  .  My  dear  Lord   Kilmore,   senti- 


SMOKE  OF  THE  PAST 

mentality !  I  can  see  no  necessity  for  any  such  thing, 
so  long  as  tenant  and  landlord  carry  out  the  essential 
duties  of  their  position.  Do  you  think  that  any  landlord 
in  England  really  understands  his  tenants,  or  any  tenant 
his  landlord?  I  do  not;  and  I  may  claim  to  know  some- 
thing of  both  classes.  No  more,  I  assure  you,  than  your 
Irish  landlord  and  your  Irish  tenant." 

Shane  listened  with  a  darkling  face.  Then  he  looked 
up  suddenly  and  cast  the  defiance  of  his  blue  eyes  on 
his  adviser. 

"All  the  same,  I'll  never  go  next  or  nigh  those  grand 
English  places  of  mine,  and  I  give  you  fair  warning. 
Run  them  as  you  think  best.  Get  the  money  out  of  the 
fellows  that  owe  it  to  me,  and  keep  the  land  decent  and 
the  houses  warm — and  I'll  tell  you  what" — he  struck  the 
table  with  his  hardened  hand — "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do — 
I'll  sell  them !" 

"You  cannot,  Lord  Kilmore.    The  property  is  entailed." 

"I  can,  then.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  you  take  me  for. 
I've  talked  it  over  already  with  my  cousin,  the  fellow  that 
comes  after  me.  And  he's  as  ready  as  rain  if  I  make  it 
worth  his  while.  I'll  buy  back  Kilmore." 

"Kilmore?" 

"That  same.  Kilmore,  the  old  place  and  lands  that 
ought  never  to  have  gone  out  of  the  keeping  of  the 
O'Conors.  And  I'll  go  back  to  my  own,  and  build  the 
castle  up  again.  And  then  I'll  see  whether  an  Irish  land- 
lord can't  be  understood  by  his  tenants." 

Mr.  Somerset  had  had  a  quiet  smile.  These  were  early 
days. 

"All  this  will  take  time,"  he  remarked  soothingly,  as 
he  rose  to  leave. 

145 


NEW  WINE 

"Well,  you  have  my  instructions,"  said  Shane  loftily. 

"Quite  so." 

Mr.  Somerset  had  gone  back  to  his  office,  where,  as  far 
as  any  sale  of  the  English  estates  was  concerned,  he  main- 
tained month  after  month  a  masterly  inertia. 

From  the  Academy  Shane  went  straight  to  his  rooms, 
and  told  the  porter  that  he  was  at  home  to  no  one. 
Seated  at  the  bureau  which  excited  Valentine  Blythe's  de- 
rision, he  drew  a  bundle  of  letters  from  an  inner  drawer. 

Letters  from  Clenane — Moira's  tied  in  a  bundle  by 
themselves.  Three  from  Father  Blake.  One  from  Dr. 
Molloy.  And  four — Shane  frowned  as  he  looked  down 
at  them — in  large,  smeared  handwriting  from  Moira's 
father ;  a  couple,  too,  which  he  had  never  opened,  scenting 
annoyance  in  a  yet  more  archaic  scrawl.  The  young  man's 
countenance  was  that  of  one  in  pain  as  he  held  these  mes- 
sages from  the  old  life.  But  his  jaw  was  set.  He  meant 
to  go  through  with  the  task. 

In  all  Moira  had  written  some  twenty  times,  and  the 
date  of  the  last  letter  was  four  months  ago.  There  was 
an  interval  of  six  weeks  between  it  and  the  one  before. 

"Dear  Shane,"  began  the  first.  Moira  wrote  nicely, 
painstakingly,  as  the  nuns  had  taught  her,  with  commas 
and  full  stops  in  their  right  places  and  small  flourishes 
to  the  capital  letters.  Her  style  was  as  formal  as  her 
calligraphy;  but  it  was  a  love  letter  for  all  that.  Some- 
thing leaped  out  of  it  that  stabbed  the  reader  to  the  heart : 
the  innocent  warmth  and  trust  behind  the  artless  words 
.  .  .  "I'm  thinking  of  you  all  the  day.  ...  I  said  my 
rosary  for  you  in  the  chapel.  ...  I  keep  wondering  when 
I  can  hope  to  hear  from  you.  ...  It  won't  be  very  long 

146 


SMOKE  OF  THE  PAST 

now,  before  I  hear.  Once  I  get  a  letter  I  won't  be  mind- 
ing near  so  much.  .  .  .  Leprechaun  frets  a  lot.  He  sits 
watching  the  door." 

The  next  letter  betrayed  more  emotion.  She  had  re- 
ceived her  first  love  letter,  and  it  had  contained  the  news 
of  his  accession.  He  remembered  well  in  what  a  heat  of 
passion  he  had  written  it,  with  the  memory  of  his  uncle's 
dying  assault  upon  his  loyalty  burning  within  him.  "And 
what  do  I  care  for  it  all  if  it  isn't  to  bring  it  to  you?" 
he  had  said.  "Moira,  my  own  girl,  my  sweet  Moira !"  He 
had  taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  over  his  budget  to 
Clenane  that  day ;  the  words  to  Moira  had  rushed  from  his 
pen  as  upon  the  flood  of  his  tenderness.  The  spelling  may 
have  been  in  places  peculiar,  but  Shane  had  never  written 
a  better  letter  in  his  life,  one  more  honest  and  manly. 
He  knew  that,  and  now  stifled  a  groan  as  he  took  up 
Moira's  reply  to  it: — 

"DEAR  SHANE,  or  ought  I  to  be  calling  you  my  lord? 
— I  wouldn't  like  not  to  be  doing  right  by  you,  and  you 
know  you're  free,  Shane.  And  you  so  great  now  in  the 
land,  and  rich,  and  me  so  humble.  But,  oh !  dear  Shane, 
this  once  I  couldn't  but  be  telling  you  how  I  love  you, 
with  your  beautiful  letter  before  me!  I  do  love  you,  I'll 
always  love  you.  But  you  know  you're  free,  and  I  would 
never  be  thinking  bad  of  you  to  change  your  mind.  I 
know  it  will  be  the  right  thing  by  yourself  and  by  me, 
whatever  you  decide  in  the  end.  The  Da  says  you'll  be 
coming  over  at  once.  But  Father  Blake  says  that  is  not 
likely  at  all,  with  everything  you  will  have  to  do  over 
there.  So  I'm  not  counting  on  it.  But,  when  you  do 
come,  I  think  the  soul  will  rise  out  of  me  with  joy.  .  .  ." 

147 


NEW  WINE 

There  comes  a  point  when  a  sense  of  remorse  turns  to 
irritation.  Shane  crumpled  the  sheet  in  his  hand  and 
getting  up  cast  it  into  the  grate.  He  would  set  fire  to 
them  all  presently.  What  was  the  good  of  keeping  them  ? 
If  Moira  had  loved  him  then,  it  was  over  and  done  with 
now.  It  was  she  who  had  cast  him  off.  He  would  never 
have  broken  his  promise,  no  matter  what  it  had  cost  him 
to  keep  it. 

It  is  chiefly  in  attempted  self -justification  that  we  give 
ourselves  away.  Shane  did  not  pause  to  consider  how 
that  very  thought  condemned  him. 

He  turned  again  to  the  table  and  stood  tossing  over  the 
remainder  of  the  correspondence.  What  w:is  the  good 
of  going  back  upon  it  all  ?  He  knew  pretty  well  by  heart 
what  each  sheet  contained: — those  two  letters,  of  recent 
date,  which  he  had  never  opened,  and  which,  he  felt  quite 
certain,  emanated  from  Mrs.  Blake — she  never  had  been 
much  of  a  scholar;  the  doctor's  exuberant  felicitations, 
peppered  with  jocosities  and  "my  boy"s;  the  old  priest's 
lines,  as  constrained  and  sad  in  the  first  as  in  the  last — 
beginning,  "These  are  terrible  responsibilities,"  and  end- 
ing, "Moira,  the  child,  has  come  to  the  right  conclusion. 
She  will  be  happier  now  that  it  is  settled." 

Yes,  it  was  she  who  had  done  it.  Shane's  hand  fluttered 
among  the  papers,  impatiently,  yet  it  trembled. 

There  is  often  a  fundamental  disingenuity  about  the 
Irish  character,  but  Shane  had  had  a  crystal  integrity 
of  soul ;  he  had  not  lost  this  yet.  What  Moira  had  done, 
she  had  done  for  his  sake.  She  was  only  a  farmer's  daugh- 
ter and  he  was  a  rich  and  noble  lord;  he  had  a  fine  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  importance.  But  she  had  loved  him 

148 


SMOKE  OF  THE  PAST 

nobly;  and  never  more  nobly  than  when  she  had  written 
to  sever  the  tie  between  them. 

From  the  moment  when  his  own  letters  grew  rarer  and 
he  ceased  to  make  allusions  to  his  immediate  return, 
Moira's  replies  became  increasingly  diffident  and  formal. 
"Don't  be  minding  anything  the  Da  would  write  to  you," 
she  had  added  in  a  hasty  postscript  to  one  prim,  copper- 
plate epistle,  of  which  the  nuns  would  certainly  have  ap- 
proved. The  Da ! — if  it  had  not  been  for  that  old  ass,  for 
that  cursed,  interfering,  scheming  old  fellow,  things  would 
never  have  turned  out  as  they  did.  But  it  was  more  than 
any  one  could  stand,  and.  if  his  daughter  was  not  Lady 
Kilmore  by  this  time,  Farmer  Blake  had  only  himself  to 
thank.  Actually  hectoring  him — Kilmore!  Threatening 
to  come  over  and  fetch  him,  no  less.  Hinting  at  the  law. 
Breaking  the  flower  of  their  love  with  his  coarse  hands, 
trampling  on  it,  till  there  was  nothing  left  of  its  sweet- 
ness and  color. 

"I  could  not  ever  think  of  it  now,"  had  written  Moira. 
"The  Da  has  made  me  feel  so  ashamed !  Don't  answer 
him,  dear  Shane.  It's  Lord  Kilmore  I  ought  to  call  you, 
but  you'd  think  that  strange.  And,  indeed,  it  would  be 
strange  to  me.  Don't  answer  him  at  all,  that  will  be  the 
best  way.  I  have  told  him  how  it  is  with  me,  and  it  is 
only  the  truth  I'm  speaking  when  I  tell  you  that  I'm  quite 
content,  knowing  it's  right." 

Why  had  he  not  gone  back,  while  it  was  still  easy — 
while,  in  truth,  he  wanted  to?  Shane  asked  himself  the 
question;  and  then  flung  up  his  head  with  a  short  laugh 
that  had  not  much  mirth  in  it. 

"Troth,"  he  answered  himself,  "for  the  same  reason 
that  the  colts  will  kick  up  their  heels  and  run  away  from 

149 


NEW  WINE 

the  man  who  holds  the  halter  even  if  he  has  the  sieve  of 
good  corn  in  the  other  hand."  Yes,  that  was  it.  He  loved 
Moira,  but,  for  the  moment,  he  loved  freedom  best.  And 
freedom,  with  the  new  power,  and  the  new  wealth  behind 
it,  had  gone  to  his  head.  If  Dan  Blake  had  not  come 
meddling!  It  was  only  natural,  it  was  only  fair,  that  he 
should  have  a  year  or  so,  to  see  and  to  know  and  to 
taste  what  the  new  life  brought. 

He  reverted  to  the  comparison  that  came  so  naturally 
to  him:  was  he  not  like  the  young  horse  turned  into  the 
field?  "Oh,  Danny  Blake,  my  fine  Danny  Blake,  if  you 
hadn't  come  after  me  with  that  halter !  Faith  and  crack- 
ing the  whip  at  me !" 

Yet  there  was  something  else  too  that  had  kept  Shane 
O'Conor  from  going  back,  in  his  new  role,  to  the  old 
home;  a  feeling  which,  however  honest,  no  youthful  mind 
would  have  acknowledged  to  itself.  To  return,  just  the 
same  Shane  as  ever,  rough,  uncultivated,  hail-fellow-well- 
met  with  his  peasant  comrades,  there  would  have  been  no 
pleasure  in  this,  no  honor  and  glory.  It  was  not  in  him 
to  treat  his  former  associates  otherwise  than  before;  but 
he  was  boy  enough  to  want  to  impress  them.  How  could 
he  do  this  till  he  was  at  home  in  his  new  clothes,  till  his 
broken  nails  and  toil-worn  hands  had  grown  to  look  like 
those  of  other  gentlemen — in  fine,  till  he  felt  himself  the 
gentleman? 

It  had  been  a  slow  process,  this  assimilation  of  the 
manners  and  customs  of  another  class,  and  Shane,  as  he 
piled  these  records  of  the  past  in  the  empty  grate  and  set 
fire  to  them,  had  a  singular  impression  that  he  was  even 
yet  hanging,  as  it  were,  between  two  spheres.  He  could 
never  take  up  the  lost  thread  of  that  wild,  irresponsible 

150 


SMOKE  OF  THE  PAST 

life;  he  could  never  again  feel  at  home  in  the  poor  com- 
munity, never  again  find  content  in  its  ignorant  ideals. 
On  the  other  hand,  was  he  a  bit  more  at  home  with  those 
among  whom  he  was  now  by  position  an  equal?  They 
talked  in  a  tongue  which  still  puzzled  him  constantly ;  they 
did  things  which  amazed  him.  These  fashionable  young 
men,  his  companions,  now  and  again  expressed  views  which 
revolted  him.  He  could  walk  and  talk  with  them ;  he  could 
eat  and  jest  with  them,  ride  and  shoot  with  them,  and 
command  admiring  respect  on  this  score  at  least.  But 
could  he  think  with  them?  Could  he  feel  with  them? 
Shane  knew  that  he  could  not.  His  heart  rose.  "God  help 
me,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  the  flames  thrust  little  licking 
tongues  in  and  out  of  the  crumpled  papers,  and  a  word  of 
Moira's,  a  phrase  of  the  doctor's,  writhed  at  him  out  of 
the  charred  mass,  and  was  gone,  "It's  nobody  I  can  turn 
to,  and  it's  nowhere  I  want  to  go !" 

Then  an  image  slipped  in  between  him  and  the  flickering 
pile;  a  pensive,  delicate  face,  a  drooping  head,  the  gaze 
of  violet  eyes  which  seemed  to  plead  and  plead.  The  mem- 
ory of  Moira  suddenly  faded,  sank  far,  far — like  the  figure 
of  one  who  walks  away  into  the  night. 


Ill 


THE  HOUSE  PARTY 

"WELL,  what  do  you  think  of  my  barbarian  ?" 

Valentine  Blythe  put  the  question  in  a  low  voice  to  his 
hostess,  with  his  flickering  smile  and  his  inconsequent 
blush.  Lady  Hobson  gave  a  look  across  the  room  at 
Shane  and  then  dropped  her  long-lashed  lids. 

Shane  was  sitting  apart,  his  chin  on  his  hand,  brooding. 
Ever  and  anon  he  had  a  furtive  glance  towards  the  delicate 
lady  who  had  received  him  with  such  sweet  indifference  and 
had  instantly  removed  herself,  or  so  it  seemed  to  him,  to 
immeasurable  distance.  One  of  those  furtive  glances  met 
her  wide  gaze,  and  the  color  rushed  into  his  face.  These 
were  the  eyes  of  the  portrait ;  mysteriously  pleading,  pro- 
foundly melancholy.  They  wanted  something  of  him. 
What  was  it? 

"He's  going  to  be  a  little  heavy  on  hand,  isn't  he?" 
murmured  back  Venetia  Hobson. 

In  the  space  of  a  few  minutes  the  two  or  three  friendly 
individuals  to  whom  Blythe  had  airily  introduced  him, 
had  given  up  the  attempt  to  converse  with  the  new  Lord 
Kilmore.  Even  so  genial  a  being  as  Colonel  Darcy,  all 
agog  as  he  was  with  a  benevolent  curiosity,  had  found 
himself  baffled  by  the  blank  stare,  the  inappropriate  mono- 
syllable with  which  his  remarks  had  been  met. 

"  Ton  my  honor,"  thought  the  Guardsman,  as  he  with- 
drew to  the  more  congenial  neighborhood  of  young  Lady 

152 


THE  HOUSE  PARTY 

Thurso,  "he's  got  all  poor  William's  disagreeability,  with 
none  of  his  intellect.  What  a  substitute  for  that  fine  lad, 
Harold!" 

He  heaved  a  sigh  from  the  depth  of  his  magnificent 
chest,  selected  a  petit  pain  fourre  with  discrimination,  and 
turned  his  charming  smile  upon  the  young  peeress  whom 
he  regarded  with  a  double  tenderness,  because  of  her 
vivacious  prettiness,  and  because  of  certain  memories  per- 
taining to  those  days  when  she  had  been  "dear  little  Dorrie 
Prince,  the  sweetest  thing  that  ever  tripped  the  boards." 

Creewater  was  a  large,  comfortable  Georgian  mansion, 
romantically  set  on  the  coast,  with  admirable  distant  views 
across  the  Solway  Firth.  Its  acres  of  park,  girt  by  a  ten- 
foot  wall  of  red  sandstone,  was  traversed  by  noble  avenues 
leading  to  wrought-iron  gates.  -This  on  the  landward  side 
— on  the  other  side,  stretches  of  stone-pine  alleys,  under- 
grown  by  a  fantastic  luxuriance  of  rhododendron,  ended 
suddenly  upon  cliff  and  sea.  To  come  out  from  bosky 
glades,  one's  eyes  filled  with  the  carmines,  purples  and 
roses  of  those  great  bushes,  and  to  meet  the  sudden  cliff, 
the  dazzling  of  the  blue  waters  beneath,  was  to  dream 
oneself  in  some  enchanted  land  where  in  radiance  North 
and  South  had  met. 

Within  the  house  a  taste  had  presided,  sure,  fastidious, 
ambitious,  and  unfettered.  The  great  room  where  Lady 
Hobson's  guests,  this  afternoon,  were  seated  at  tea,  was 
one  that  might  have  been  found  in  a  Venetian  palace.  At 
first  sight  it  gave  an  impression  of  space,  almost  of  empti- 
ness ;  but  any  one  who  could  discriminate  would,  at  the 
next  glance,  find  that  it  was  filled  with  treasures  which  it 
would  take  him  a  lifetime  to  appreciate.  Not  more  than 
half  a  dozen  pictures  on  those  white  panels  delicately 

153 


NEW  WINE 

wreathed  with  plaster  work,  but  what  pictures — a  Rom- 
ney*s  Lady  Hamilton ;  a  portrait  of  an  Italian  princess  by 
the  Rubens  of  early  days ;  a  golden  Claude  and  a  no  less 
golden  Turner;  some  Italian  primitive,  adorably  rich, 
serene,  and  naif.  The  furniture,  not  exclusively  of  one 
period ;  chairs  that  had  indeed  come  from  a  doge's  palace ; 
cabinets  of  lemonwood  here,  there  of  priceless  lacquers. 
For  color:  cool  grays,  fainting  greens,  primroses,  and  am- 
bers, with  a  vivid  note  of  flowers  such  as  Shane  had  never 
seen  in  his  life;  or  again  the  challenging  glows  of  some 
superb  brocade.  Lapis  lazuli,  malachite,  alabaster;  he 
would  not  have  known  the  names  of  these  strange  and 
beautiful  things.  Ivories,  too ;  niellos,  silver  and  gold 
inlays,  colored  glass  fashioned,  it  seemed,  out  of  soap 
bubbles,  or  foam  in  the  sunset.  And  a  slender,  naked 
loveliness  from  which  he  turned  his  eyes  away — Eve  hold- 
ing the  apple,  shining  white  on  her  pedestal,  with  the 
green  spray  of  exotic  ferns  about  her. 

The  woman  who  was  the  center  of  it  all  moved  like  a 
nymph,  as  if  unconscious  of  her  surroundings ;  delicate, 
aloof,  with  mysterious  smile  and  still  more  mysteriously 
haunted  eyes. 

Shane  knew  nothing  of  nymphs ;  nor  as  yet,  indeed,  any- 
thing of  the  meaning  of  beauty  as  expressed  by  art.  But 
he  felt  inarticulately,  dimly,  almost  with  a  kind  of  pain 
over  the  sense  of  his  own  limitation,  that  the  loveliness 
that  met  him  on  every  side  was  only  the  background  for 
that  other  loveliness — Venetia. 

We  each  of  us  live  in  a  world  of  our  own,  isolate,  as 
it  were  encompassed  like  a  star  in  the  making,  by  the 
nebulae  of  feelings,  thoughts,  doubts,  instincts,  and  im- 
pulses that  come  to  us,  we  know  not  whence,  and  carry 

154 


THE  HOUSE  PARTY 

us  we  know  not  whither.  Often  two  isolations  draw  to- 
gether; sometimes,  rarely,  they  become  fused  in  a  perfect 
whole.  But  for  the  most  part  we  carry  on  our  course  in 
an  immense  loneliness.  If  ever  there  was  a  lonely  creature, 
that  Whit  Saturday  of  May,  nineteen-fourteen,  it  was 
the  new  Lord  Kilmore. 

From  the  moment  of  his  crossing  the  threshold  of 
Creewater  House,  he  had  been  seized  with  a  paralyzing 
self-consciousness.  Arrogant,  ready  to  take  umbrage, 
fierce  to  resent  the  imaginary  slight,  he  had  had,  never- 
theless, through  all  his  curious  experiences,  an  upholding 
conviction  that  he  was  a  better  man  all  round  than  any 
of  his  fine  acquaintances.  What  if  he  was  not  yet  up  to 
their  social  tricks ;  if  he  had  not  yet  learned  which  painted 
old  lady  was  the  widow  of  a  city  knight  and  which  a  dow- 
ager duchess ;  what  if  Valentine  Blythe  found  cause  still 
to  blush  for  him,  and  laugh  at  him,  twenty  times  in  an 
afternoon — was  not  he,  Shane,  the  better  fellow,  who 
neither  blushed  nor  laughed  for  a  mistake,  but  could  af- 
ford to  cast  the  memory  of  it  away,  as  something  to  dis- 
dain ? 

Disdain !  That  was,  in  the  recesses  of  his  soul,  his  atti- 
tude towards  the  novel  existence  which  yet  held  him  in  its 
toils  so  completely  as  to  oust  the  claims  of  the  old. 

"What's  come  over  me  at  all?"  he  asked  himself  now, 
as  he  felt  his  hands  turn  to  ice  at  the  touch  of  the  satin 
smooth  ivory-hued  fingers. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you."  That  was  all  she  said  to 
him.  Her  voice  was  very  low  and  soft. 

Her  elusive,  fragile  beauty,  as  the  picture  had  shown 
it,  had  filled  his  vision  with  incredible  constancy.  Day 
by  day  he  had  gone  back  to  look  at  it,  at  odd  early  hours 

155 


NEW  WINE 

when  he  had  the  place  more  or  less  to  himself.  Now  his 
ear  was  filled  with  the  music  for  which  it  had  been  so 
long  unconsciously  straining.  It  was  with  a  kind  of  recog- 
nition that  he  received  the  gentle  sounds.  He  could  not 
have  repeated  one  single  name,  of  those  which  Valentine 
Blythe  reeled  off  to  him.  He  could  not  have  said  how 
many  spoke,  or  what  their  speech  had  been.  It  was  just 
all  he  could  do  to  hold  a  cup  of  tea  without  spilling  it ;  to 
resist  the  impulse  to  spring  up  and  dash  from  the  room, 
away  from  the  turmoil  of  spirit  that  had  fallen  on  him 
like  a  spell.  Then  their  eyes  had  met  and  he  forgot  him- 
self in  the  recurrence  of  the  strange  impression  the  por- 
trait had  already  given  him :  she  wanted  something — some- 
thing that  he  alone  could  give.  What  was  it?  He  almost 
checked  the  words  on  his  lips:  he  had  almost  jumped  to 
his  feet;  the  overpowering  crimson  had  rushed  up. 

Valentine  Blythe,  surveying  him  with  a  critical  sense  of 
proprietorship,  was  surprised. 

"I  declare,"  he  said,  "there's  my  fellow  blushing,  as 
badly  as  ever  I  did  in  my  life.  Dear  lady,  see  what  you've 
done  already !  Heavy  on  hand?  What  a  remark  to  make, 
you  of  all  women !  I  thought  you'd  be  so  grateful  to  me. 
Fve  brought  you  something  new :  the  newest  thing  out,  the 
freshest  thing  that  has  come  our  old  dusty  London  way, 
for  years  and  years.  It's  as  wild  and  green  of  the  pas- 
ture as  a  Centaur.  And  as  beautiful  too.  Come,  you 
will  acknowledge  it's  beautiful.  Be  grateful  to  me,  dear 
Venetia.  I  knew  you  were  the  one  being  in  all  the  world 
who  could  appreciate" — he  paused,  smiled,  and  blushed — 
"un  homme  tout  neuf." 

Lady  Hobson's  poetic  gaze  pondered  upon  Blythe's 
countenance.  She  sighed  in  a  tired  way,  and  said : — 

156 


THE  HOUSE  PARTY 

"In  truth — most  people  are  very  much  used  up.  What 
was  it  you  said,  just  now — a  dusty  world?  And  this 
young  Lord  Kilmore  is — we  have  no  real  equivalent,  have 
we? — is  brand  new?  But —  Her  eyes  wandered  round 

the  wonderful  room.  "I'm  not  so  very  fond  of  brand 
new  things  either." 

Her  accents  took  a  plaintive  note. 

"Oh,  but  Shane  is  not  new  in  that  sense!"  cried  Val- 
entine Blythe,  stammering  in  his  eagerness.  He  had 
thought  Venetia  a  cleverer  woman,  somehow;  or  at  least 
more  intuitive.  "Unless  you  call  Endymion  brand  new. 
There  are  things,  you  know,  as  old  as  the  hills  yet  as  young 
as  the  crescent  moon ;  and  my  barbarian  is  of  them. 
Haven't  you  heard  that  old  Lord  de  Lacy  declares  that 
he  has  stepped  out  of  ancient  Greece ?" 

He  broke  off.  The  door  at  the  end  of  the  room  had 
been  noisily  flung  open,  and  a  man  of  great  height  and 
corpulence  came  in,  followed  by  two  bulldogs. 

"I  forgot,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Blythe  in  his  impertinent 
way,  "that  we  had  not  yet  said  how-de-do  to  Tiny  Tim." 

"Ah "  Lady  Hobson  rose,  with  the  faint  sigh 

which  seemed  to  mean  so  infinitely  much.  She  moved  like 
the  mists,  with  a  stealthy,  uncertain  grace.  Valentine, 
as  in  duty  bound,  got  up  too.  Their  eyes  were  on  a 
level.  Suddenly  she  smiled  exquisitely.  "I  was  wondering 
why  you  thought  a  brand  new  man  would  be  a  novelty," 
she  murmured,  and  stepped  across  to  the  hearth  where, 
towering  upon  the  white  bearskin  before  the  wood  fire, 
Sir  Timothy  Hobson  was  already  devouring  scones  with 
great  bites  while  his  two  prize  bulldogs  looked  up  at  him, 
grinning  and  dribbling. 

"Timothy —  '  Venetia  Hobson  was  the  only  person  to 

157 


NEW  WINE 

address  the  baronet  by  his  full  name — even  the  servants 
called  him  Sir  Tim — and  there  was  always  an  echo  as  a 
protest  in  the  delicate  resonance  of  her  voice.  "Timothy, 
I  don't  think  you  know  that  Lord  Kilmore  is  here." 

She  turned  to  Shane,  who  was  still  sitting  rigidly  in 
his  corner.  He  jumped  up  and  came  forward  hastily. 
How  had  he  forgotten  that  first  rule  which  Blythe  had 
impressed  upon  him  with  such  imperativeness,  never  to 
sit  while  your  hostess  stands? 

"Lord  Kilmore,  here  is  my  husband.  He  is  a  very  busy 
man — are  you  not,  Timothy? — or  he  would  have  been 
here  to  receive  you." 

Sir  Timothy  gave  his  new  guest  a  single  comprehensive 
look,  then  flung  out  a  huge  hand,  and  grasped  Shane's 
with  such  ferocious  heartiness,  that,  strong  as  they  were, 
he  felt  his  knuckles  grind  one  against  the  other.  Sir 
Timothy  grinned. 

"If  I  didn't  look  after  things,"  he  said  generally,  "they'd 
jolly  soon  go  to  pieces,  I  can  tell  you." 

He  had  a  great  face,  with  a  nose  disproportionately 
small,  a  protuberant  jowl,  gray  eyes,  round  as  marbles, 
rather  bloodshot,  that  rolled  with  a  sort  of  watchful 
uneasiness  although  the  general  expression  of  the  counte- 
nance was  jocose.  His  was  the  kind  of  pink  blotting- 
paper  complexion  which  turns  purple  under  sun  and  wind. 
He  was  clean-shaven,  his  close-cropped  hair  was  sandy. 

He  grinned  at  Shane  approvingly,  and  the  young  man 
thought  him  extraordinarily  like  his  bulldogs.  But  these 
latter  he  admired  with  a  sportsman's  appreciation,  while 
their  master  filled  him  with  an  instant  and  profound  an- 
tipathy. 

Shane  stepped  back  and  turned  to  Sir  Timothy's  wife, 

158 


THE  HOUSE  PARTY 

upon  an  impulse  so  swift  as  to  be  unconscious.  Their  gaze 
commingled ;  then  hers  fluttered  away.  He  had  been  ask- 
ing himself  what  was  the  enigma  of  those  beautiful  sad 
eyes :  now  he  understood,  or  thought  he  did.  He  looked 
back  at  the  baronet,  flinging  bits  of  cake  to  his  favorites 
in  turn.  The  three  grins,  how  horribly  similar  they  were ! 
And  this  was  her  husband.  "God  help  her!"  thought  the 
lad,  with  the  old  instinctive  call  on  the  supernatural. 
"It's  the  unhappy  creature  she  is.  How  in  the  world  did 
she  ever  come  to  marry  him?" 

The  room  was  full  of  talk  and  laughter.  Sir  Timothy 
spoke  indoors  as  if  he  were  shouting  across  a  field.  His 
mirth  was  nearly  as  noisy.  A  tall,  dark  woman,  not  very 
young,  and  highly  painted,  had  come  forward  from  a  cor- 
ner behind  a  screen,  followed  by  an  elderly,  white-faced 
man.  Shane  noted  them  for  the  first  time,  and  with  that 
same  unhesitancy  as  in  the  ca"se  of  his  host,  hated  them. 

These  feelings  were  unusual  with  him;  he  often  felt  a 
contempt  for  his  company,  but  it  was  always  a  good- 
humored  one.  This  was  antagonism,  almost  indignation. 
The  dark  lady,  with  the  lips  as  red  as  sealing-wax, 
screamed  witticisms  to  her  host,  while  he  rolled  his  eyes  at 
her  and  grinned  more  than  ever.  Valentine,  with  real 
pleasure  in  his  voice,  hailed  the  pale,  elderly  man. 

"Hallo,  Joss  Sticks,  I'd  no  idea  you  were  here.  My  dear 
fellow,  it's  a  relief — forgive  me,  Venetia,  dear,  but  the 
sight  of  Joss  Sticks  does  bring  one  back  to  civilization." 

"Dunno,  I'm  sure,  about  civilization" — it  was  the  lady 
of  the  red  lips  who  spoke — "but  it  would  be  a  blessing 
if  some  one  would  teach  Val  a  little  civility.  How  do, 
Val?  You  are  the  limit,  you  know.  Civilization!  We're 
savages,  Ojibways,  you  and  I,  Tim,  I  suppose!  I'd  rather 

159 


NEW  WINE 

be  that  than  a  mandarin,  anyhow!"  She  shrieked  with 
laughter  as  she  pointed  the  remark  with  a  fleeting  glance 
at  the  man  whom  Blythe  had  addressed  as  Joss  Sticks. 

Following  this  glance  Shane  saw  that  the  gentleman  in 
question  had  indeed  a  Chinese  cast  of  countenance. 

"Talking  of  rudeness,"  cried  Mr.  Blythe,  more  airily 
insolent  than  ever,  "who  has  not  said  how-de-do,  Lady 
Kenneth?"  He  shook  her  outstretched  fingers  from  side 
to  side  as  he  spoke.  "Savages  ?  Oh,  no,  Lady  Ken,  that's 
not  the  word.  Costers  would  be  far  more  appropriate. 
You  and  Tim  would  be  first  class  in  the  Old  Kent  Road. 
Ah,  by  the  way,  that  reminds  me,  you  don't  know  Lord 
Kilmore,  I  think — Shane,  let  me  introduce  you  to  Lady 
Kenneth  Maclver — Mr.  Joscelyn  Browne,  Lord  Kilmore. 
We  call  him  Joss  Sticks,  dear  Kil,  because  he's  more 
Chinese  than  the  Chinese,  and  if  ever  you  want  to  invest  in 
anything  priceless  in  the  way  of  Celestial  art,  here's  the 
man  for  you." 

This  speech  might  have  been  in  Chinese,  as  far  as 
Shane's  comprehension  of  it  was  concerned.  The  gentle- 
man gave  him  a  loose  finger  touch,  one  cold  glance,  and 
turned  away.  The  new  Lord  Kilmore  was  not  Mr.  Jos- 
celyn Browne's  "sort."  The  lady's  bold  eyes  appraised 
him,  as  if,  he  furiously  thought,  he  were  a  beast  at  a  fair. 

"Ah,  wait  till  you  see  him  on  a  horse,"  cried  Blythe,  in 
corroboration  of  the  approval  in  Lady  Kenneth's  eye. 

Sir  Timothy  intervened. 

"Shut  up,  Val! — I  say,  I  want  a  cigar.  Come  and 
keep  me  company  in  the  billiard  room,  will  you,  Lady 
Ken,  since  her  ladyship  makes  such  a  blank  fuss  about  the 
smell  of  it  here?  A  sight  better  than  her  filthy  cigarette 
smoke,  I  tell  her." 

160 


THE  HOUSE  .PARTY 

"You  shall  try  one  of  my  Egyptians,  Lord  Kilmore." 
Lady  Hobson's  soft  voice  was  like  balm  to  Shane,  after 
the  loud,  coarse  clamor.  "Come  and  sit  by  the  fire  with 
me.  It's  always  chilly  up  here  in  the  North." 

"We're  going  for  a  turn,"  said  young  Lady  Thurso 
briskly,  as  she  jumped  up  from  the  sofa  where  she  and 
Colonel  Darcy  had  been  absorbed  in  each  other. 

Mr.  Blythe  broke  into  laughter,  rocking  himself  back- 
wards and  forwards.  Shane,  neophyte  as  he  was  yet  in 
society,  perceived  nevertheless  clearly  enough  that  there 
was  an  offensive  thought  behind  this  mirth.  He  glared 
at  Valentine,  as  he  followed  Venetia  Hobson's  slow  drift 
across  the  room.  Blythe  stopped,  blushed,  stared  back, 
and  broke  into  laughter  again. 

"Dear  Joss  Sticks,"  he  then  cried  mincingly,  "take  me 
into  a  quiet  corner,  and  let  us  talk  of  old  Nan-kin." 


IV 


THE   HOUR   EXQUISITE 

"So  she's  given  you  the  Chinese  room,"  said  Valentine 
Blythe  discontentedly.  "I  do  call  that  mean !  She  knows 
how  much  I  like  it.  And  really" — he  went  on,  nursing 
his  knee  and  displaying  a  vast  amount  of  black  silk  sock 
with  elaborate  purple  embroidery — "really,  if  she  did  not 
give  it  to  me,  she  ought  to  have  given  it  to  poor  old  Joss 
Sticks.  He'd  have  sat  and  worshiped.  Whereas  you — 
I  don't  suppose  you  know  a  'Ming'  from  a  bit  of 
Lowestoft." 

Shane  was  wrestling  with  his  tie.  Divers  crumpled 
streamers  on  the  floor  about  him  testified  to  previous 
failures.  He  stopped,  frowning,  and  cast  a  roaming 
glance  about  the  room. 

"Chinese,  is  it?  It's  precious  ugly.  And,  faith,  I'll  be 
afraid  that  pair  of  beasts  by  the  fire  there,  will  be  want- 
ing to  jump  at  me  in  the  night.  I'd  feel  happier  with  the 
bulldogs." 

He  turned  again  to  the  lacquer-framed  mirror,  and 
tore  the  fifth  tie  from  his  neck  with  a  smothered  curse. 

"If  you'd  taken  my  advice  and  engaged  a  valet,  as  any 
other  man  in  your  position —  "  said  Blythe. 

"Huthen,  I've  enough  of  fine  gentlemen  without  that !" 

"Yet,  dear  boy,  you'd  like  your  tie  to  sit  straight. 
This  is  in  consequence.  Allow  me." 

He  rose,  delicately  inserted  a  fresh  tie  round  his  friend's 

162 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

collar,  and  proceeded  to  form  a  perfect  bow.  As  he 
manipulated,  he  flowed  on: — 

"So  you  don't  appreciate  the  Chinese  room?  Some- 
times, Kil,  I  despair  of  you.  Was  there  ever  anything 
so  exquisite  as  that  brocade  on  the  walls?  Such  a  color, 
so  rich !  So  purely  yellow  without  a  tinge  of  the  banality 
of  gold,  or  the  impurity  of  green.  See  how  it  throws  out 
the  picture — oh,  Kil,  what  a  picture!  The  best  Opie 
ever  painted,  to  my  mind.  That  dark  girlish  head  against 
the  luminous  amber  background — it's  perfect!"  He 
stepped  back.  "Your  tie  is  perfect,  too.  But,  let  us 
understand  each  other.  Is  it  possible  you  do  not  see  the 
beauty  of  this  furniture?  Chinese  Chippendale,  the  abso- 
lutely satisfying  combination  of  its  elegance,  its  slender- 
ness  and  sparsity,  with  the  opulence  of  its  black  and  gold 
lacquer " 

He  paused.  Shane  was  inducing  himself  into  his  coat 
with  swift  shrugs. 

"Faith,  and  I  think  you  blethering  a  good  deal,"  the 
young  peer  remarked  with  restored  good  humor,  and  stood 
still,  while,  with  another  "Allow  me,"  Blythe  gave  a  couple 
of  knowing  twitches  to  his  friend's  garment. 

Then  the  connoisseur  pursued  his  theme : — 

"I  grant  you  the  creatures  by  the  hearth  are  not  what 
you  may  call  handsome.  I'm  not,  myself,  enamored  of 
bronze  monsters." 

"Look  at  the  grin  on  them!"  cried  Shane.  "Sure  no 
wonder  he  bought  them!  Aren't  they  the  born  image  of 
Sir  Tim  himself?" 

"Ah,  by  the  way" — Valentine  Blythe  turned  briskly 
from  the  rapt  contemplation  of  the  cloisonne  jars  which 
were  the  chief  treasures  of  the  room,  to  look  round  with 

163 


NEW  WINE 

a  simmering  curio'sity — "what  do  you  think  of  Tiny  Tim?" 

"I  think  it's  the  poor  joke,"  said  Shane  dryly. 

"Dear  boy !"  Ely  the  laughed.  "It  all  depends  how  you 
look  at  it.  But  I've  such  a  simple  mind — well,  well,  I  see 
you  don't  like  him.  You're  wrong,  you  know,  it's  the  best 
fellow  in  the  world.  A  really  jolly,  good-natured,  gen- 
erous-hearted chap :  and  a  sportsman.  I  hate  sport  myself, 
you  know,  but  I  like  a  sportsman.  And  you  think  him  like 
a  Chinese  monster.  Dear  me!" 

"Or  one  of  his  own  bulldogs,"  put  in  Shane,  tearing 
open  drawer  after  drawer  of  the  black  and  gold  chest. 
"Where  in  the  name  of  God,  has  that  fellow  put  my  hand- 
kerchiefs ?" 

"Don't  be  so  passionate,"  murmured  Blythe.  "There's 
one  on  your  dressing-table,  of  course,  dear  lad.  Venetia's 
servants  know  their  business.  A  bulldog?  Oh,  fie!" 

"Only  not  one  quarter  so  nice." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Blythe  again.  Then  blushing,  and 
upon  a  titter:  "And  what  do  you  think  of  our  Venetia?" 

Shane  wheeled  about,  thrusting  the  handkerchief  into 
his  breast  pocket.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  contempla- 
tion of  his  friend,  his  chin  on  his  chest,  a  darkling  fire  in 
his  blue  eyes.  Then  he  said : — 

"I  wouldn't  be  telling  you  what  I  think  of  her." 

"And  why  not?  As  you  would  say  yourself,"  said  Mr. 
Blythe  sweetly. 

"Because  of  the  respect  I  feel  for  her,"  retorted  Shane 
promptly. 

Blythe  became  aware  that  he  had  reached  the  limit  of 
his  companion's  patience;  he  knew  the  symptoms.  He 
pulled  himself  together,  and,  with  a  certain  gentleness 

164 


THE  HOUR.  EXQUISITE 

which  no  one  could  assume  better  than  he,  and  which  was 
always  disarming,  said: — 

"You*re  quice  right,  there  is  nothing  more  odious  than 
talking  lightly  of  a  charming  woman.  It  is  only  a  way 
I've  got.  Dear  Kil,  you  think  nothing's  sacred  to  me, 
and  there  you're  wrong.  I  assure  you,  I  have  it  in  me  to 
value  Venetia." 

"You  couldn't  look  at  her,"  said  Shane,  and  his  voice 
grew  husky,  "without  seeing " 

"Quite  so,"  said  Mr.  Blythe,  as  Shane  paused,  brought 
up  short  by  his  own  emotion. 

"Do  you  really  think,"  said  the  Irishman,  suddenly  and 
boyishly,  "that  she — -that  she  picked  out  this  room  for 
me,  because — or,  confound  it,  what  you  said  yourself— 
that  it's  rather  a  favor?     Sure,  then,  it's  the  ungrateful 
devil  I  am." 

His  companion  was  again  all  on  wires  with  mischievous 
amusement. 

"My  dear  Kil,  you  really  are  delightful.  Your  modesty, 
I  do  assure  you,  your  freshness! — I  declare  I'll  call  you 
Daisy,  as  Steerforth  did  David  Copperfield.  You've  read 
your  Dickens  ?  No  ?  Well,  I'm  with  you  there,  but  I  wish 
I  could  think  it  was  eclectic  rejection.  I'm  afraid  your 
literary  education  has  been  sadly  neglected.  I'll  tell  her 
ladyship  to  superintend  it!  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what 
she  has  left  for  you.  She  always  chooses  her  guests'  books 
herself.  I  told  you,  didn't  I,  she's  the  best  hostess  in  the 
United  Kingdom?  Ah,  this  is  touching  indeed — Yeats — 
'The  Keltic  Twilight.'  Lady  Gregory's  delightful  collec- 
tion— Synge " 

Shane  called  out  hotly : 

"Synge !    I  wouldn't  read  a  line  that  fellow  wrote !" 

165 


NEW  WINE 

"Dear  me,  Kill" 

"Pretending  to  be  knowing  about  us,  and  understanding 
us,  when  there's  not  a  word  out  of  him  that  is  not  lies !" 

"You  can't  think  how  you  interest  me.  But  I  remem- 
ber. It  was  the  'Playboy  of  the  Western  World*  that 
stank  in  your  Irish  nostrils,  wasn't  it?" 

"I'd  Playboy  him!"  exclaimed  Lord  Kilmore.  With 
which  thoroughly  Hibernian  threat  the  conversation  came 
to  an  end,  for  the  dinner  gong  was  booming  through  the 
house. 

Shane  had  already  stayed  about  in  different  country 
houses,  but  these  had  been  somewhat  of  the  old-fashioned 
type:  the  halls  of  hard-hunting  squires,  who  had  been 
with  his  father  at  Eton ;  the  decorous  splendor  of  DeLacy 
Castle ;  the  rectory  of  a  clergyman  uncle,  his  father's  sec- 
ond brother,  filled  with  jolly,  happy  girls  and  boys,  who 
had  admitted  the  papist  cousin  into  uproarious  intimacy, 
and  taught  him  some  of  the  ways  of  his  class  with  a  good 
deal  of  kindly  fun. 

But  in  spite  of  his  odd  comradeship  with  Valentine 
Blythe,  he  had  never  been  one  of  an  up-to-date  country 
house  party.  Creewater  amazed  him.  Its  luxury,  its 
elaborate  refinements,  its  lavish  comforts;  the  evidences 
met  there,  on  all  sides,  of  reckless  expenditure,  and  a  fever- 
ish yearning  for  beauty ;  these  were  things  which,  with  all 
his  ignorance  of  life,  his  acute  wits  did  not  fail  to  appre- 
ciate. Certainly  there  was  no  sign  of  the  financial  diffi- 
culties his  friend  had  hinted  at,  in  the  Academy.  What 
bewildered,  what,  if  truth  he  told,  revolted  him,  were  the 
manners  of  his  fellow  guests  with  each  other ;  the  freedom, 
not  to  say  the  license,  which  prevailed  among  them. 

Every  one  seemed  to  him  at  once  atrociously  rude  and 

166 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

abominably  friendly.  If  it  had  not  been  for  her,  whom  he 
had  called  in  his  heart  Venetia,  during  so  many  longing 
days,  he  would  have  shaken  the  dust  of  the  place  off  his 
feet  that  first  night  of  all;  never  would  he  have  gone  back 
up  the  white  marble  stairs  into  the  Chinese  room,  to  give 
himself  to  impressions  that  surged  through  him  like  great 
chords  of  music. 

Venetia!  .  .  .  He  remembered  once  on  a  St.  John's 
night,  when  they  had  all  had  great  games,  over  yonder  at 
Clenane,  about  a  huge  bonfire,  how,  in  the  middle  of  the 
leapings  and  the  shouting  and  the  laughter,  the  smoke  and 
the  scorch,  he  had  looked  up  and  seen  the  evening  star 
above  his  head,  exquisitely  pure  in  the  violet  arch  of  the 
heavens.  So  had  she  seemed  to  him,  here:  a  star  above 
the  bonfire;  a  creature  apart  from  that  unholy,  noisy 
crew,  moving  delicately  in  lofty  spaces. 

He  no  more  knew  Milton  than  he  knew  Dickens,  or 
he  might  have  thought  of  the  Lady  in  Comus : — 

"A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt." 

Yet  the  poet's  idea,  if  wordless,  was  in  his  mind. 

Shane  had  learnt  by  this  time  that  the  hostess  takes 
the  highest  in  rank  to  escort  her  in  to  dinner.  Neverthe- 
less, his  heart  leaped  as  to  a  favor  when  she  said : — 

"Lord  Kilmore,  will  you  take  me  in?" 

Perhaps  there  was  something  subtly,  sweetly  possessive 
in  her  tone,  which  justified  the  moment  of  rapture. 

"Come  along,  old  girl,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  thrusting  his 
jowl  and  a  stalwart  elbow  in  the  direction  of  Lady  Ken- 
neth. "It's  your  turn  to-night,  you  know." 

"Well,  I'm  sure !"  said  Lady  Thurso  behind  him. 

167 


NEW  WINE 

She  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  exceedingly  pretty, 
impudent,  not  to  say  bacchanalian,  brandishing  a  cut-glass 
goblet.  It  was  her  second  cocktail. 

That  was  one  of  Shane's  amazements.  He  had  refused 
a  whisky  and  soda,  or  a  glass  of  champagne,  when  he 
went  up  to  dress,  and  on  coming  down  to  the  library  where 
they  assembled  before  dinner,  he  had  found  a  footman 
offering  cocktails  from  a  huge  silver  tray.  This,  too,  he 
had  refused.  Lady  Hobsoii  also  waved  a  hand  of  denial, 
whereupon  Lady  Thurso,  with  a  crow,  had  fallen  upon 
one  of  the  rejected  glasses  and  set  it  behind  her  on  the 
chimney-piece.  It  was  from  this  she  was  now  sipping. 
She  tossed  off  the  remains  of  it  with  a  knowing  tilt  of 
hand  and  chin,  winked  at  her  host  as  he  turned  round, 
and  allowed  Colonel  Darcy  to  relieve  her  of  the  goblet. 

"Well,  I'm  sure —  '  that  was  what  the  whilom  Miss 
Dorrie  Prince  was  saying.  "You  needn't  apologize,  Tim. 
There  is  such  a  thing" — she  looked  round  the  circle  with 
an  impudence  so  light-hearted  that  it  was  attractive — "as 
mutual  satisfaction." 

Colonel  Darcy  twisted  his  mustache.  Sir  Tim  guffawed, 
and  again  thrust  his  elbow  at  Lady  Kenneth,  who,  in  a 
glittering  sequin  gown,  shamelessly  cut,  was  crouching 
on  the  fenderstool. 

"You'll  have  to  give  me  a  haul  up,"  she  cried.  "Greville 
will  insist  on  pasting  one's  skirts  on  one." 

Sir  Timothy  stretched  out  a  hairy  hand  to  grasp  hers. 
Shane  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground  as  he  stood  beside 
Venetia.  Her  ivory  face  had  maintained  its  pensive  calm 
unchanged  during  the  little  scene.  Robed  all  in  misty 
grays  of  some  intangible  crepe  that  made  no  sound  as 
she  moved,  she  presented  an  amazing  contrast  to  the  other 

168 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

women — to  Lady  Kenneth,  on  whose  handsome  face  paint 
had  been  spread  with  the  audacity  of  a  flag  unfurled  to 
the  winds,  whose  hazel  eyes  were  drunk  with  belladonna, 
who.  jingled  and  clattered  and  cast  heavy  odors  of. perfume 
as  she  went,  laughing  with  vermilion  lips  over  strong  teeth 
that  seemed  dark  by  contrast  with  the  plastered  white — 
to  Lady-Thurso,  the  bride,  who  on  the  stage  carried  all 
before  her  as  the  "child  of  nature" ;  while  her  outrageous 
naiveties  could  have  been  tolerated  in  no  one  less  delioiously 
youthful  and  engaging;  who,  nevertheless,  in  society,  re- 
mained so  frankly  the  favorite  of  the  footlights  that  she 
gave  the  impression  of  being  always  before  them. 

Shane  raised  his  glance  to  stare  after  them,  wondering, 
once  again,  with  actual  pain,  how  there  came  to  be  such 
company  in  a  house  of  which  his  lady  was  mistress.  Did 
the  bulldog  fellow,  who  so  extraordinarily  had  succeeded 
in  laying  his  coarse  grasp  around  this  pearl,  impose  his 
own  chosen  company  upon  her?  Every  drop  of  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins  revolted  at  the  thought.  Shane  came 
from  a  country,  he  had  lived  among  a  people,  where,  if  the 
husband's  authority  is-  regarded  as  established  by  un- 
challengeable, almost-  sacred,  laws,  no  less  unchallengeable 
is  the  sanctity  of  the  wife's  position,  the  respect  due  to  a 
good  woman. 

The  scarcely  perceptible  movement  of  Lady  Hobson 
towards  him,  and  Blythe's  titter  behind  his  back:  "My 
deal  Kil,  you're  moonstruck !"  roused  him  to  the  fact  that 
the  scarlet  of  Lady  Thurso's  gown  had  already  disap- 
peared through  the  door. 

He  started  and  offered  his  arm.  As  he  did  so,  he  was 
once  more  overwhelmingly  aware  of  the  loveliness  beside 
him. 

169 


NEW  WINE 

"It's  not  moonstruck  I  am,"  he  exclaimed,  "but  star- 
struck  !" 

The  words  leaped  from  his  mouth,  and  he  would  have 
given  worlds  to  recall  them.  Sure  there  was  something 
dreadful  about  this  place  that  made  a  man  lose  his  hold 
over  himself.  Many  a  time  had  he  seen  a  young  colt  slip 
from  the  controlling  hand  and  off  with  him  just  that  way ! 
Blythe  tittered  again,  sarcastically:  he  was  not  pleased 
to  have  to  follow  up  with  "old  Joss  Sticks."  The  Hob- 
sons  might  have  raised  a  lady  apiece,  he  thought,  or  given 
a  new-comer  preference. 

Shane's  pulses  were  hammering  in  his  ears ;  he  moved 
mechanically  in  the  direction  indicated  by  the  pressure  of 
the  frail  hand  on  his  arm.  She  went  in  silence.  Had  he 
irredeemably  offended?  In  the  middle  of  the  hall,  he 
blurted  an  apology: — 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  I  don't  know  what  came  over  me 
at  all.  Forgive  me." 

At  that  she  opened  the  full  flower  of  her  eyes  upon  him, 
and  smiled.  The  smile,  he  thought,  was  sadder  still  than 
the  glance. 

"Have  I  anything  to  forgive?  I  didn't  know.  Some- 
how I  don't  think,  Lord  Kilmore,  that  you  would  say  any- 
thing to  me  that  could  need  forgiveness." 

"It's  dead  I'd  rather  be!" 

He  spoke  without  measuring  now,  or  feeling  the  need 
of  it.  Eyes,  smile,  sweet  voice,  had  given  him  the  same 
assurance.  She  had  not  misunderstood;  she  would  never 
misunderstand  him.  Joy  ran  through  him  like  a  cordial. 
Thus,  before  they  had  known  each  other  a  few  hours,  the 
new  Lord  Kilmore  entered  into  an  exquisite  intimacy  with 
Venetia  Hobson.  He  was  like  a  wayfarer  who,  on  a 

170 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

dusty,  torrid  journey,  coming  upon  the  sudden  lure  of 
a  secret  pool,  leaps  in  to  find  himself  caught  out  of  his 
depth,  in  a  delicious  mystery  of  wrapping  waters. 

The  dinner  was  an  uproarious  meal,  but  the  noise  and 
laughter  went  by  Shane  scarcely  noticed.  He  sat  in  a 
kind  of  dream  beside  his  hostess ;  neither  seemed  anxious 
for  speech.  Now  and  then,  when  a  too  blatant  pleasantry 
or  a  too  pointed  scream  passed  across  the  table,  he  could 
see  the  shadow  of  a  frown  darken  her  white  brow.  Then 
he  himself  would  glower  on  those  who  had  caused  it. 
He  was  well  aware  that  some  of  the  amusement  was  con- 
nected with  himself,  and  that  the  fun  was  intensified  each 
time  he  cast  that  angry  glance  about.  "If  it  wasn't  for 
her,"  he  thought,  "I'd  think  nothing  of  flinging  a  glass  of 
wine  in  their  faces,  at  bulldog's  first  of  all." 

He  hardly  realized  yet  how  it  was  with  him ;  no  longer 
a  question  of  thinking  of  her  first,  or  even  of  articulately 
thinking  of  her  at  all:  her  presence  possessed  him.  She 
could  not  stir  beside  him  but  he  was  conscious  of  it  in 
every  nerve.  He  knew  without  looking  when  the  eyelashes 
lay  shadowy  on  her  pale  cheek,  and  when  she  lifted  the 
pathos  of  her  gaze.  He  felt  her  inward  shudder  at  the 
trivial  laugh,  springing  from  the  yet  more  trivial  joke; 
and  his  own  being  was  convulsed  in  a  raging  sympathy. 
When  she  spoke  the  rare  word,  his  soul  became  as  a  cup 
tensely  offered  to  receive  it. 

He  was  abstractedly  staring  into  the  ruby  of  his 
untouched  glass  of  port  after  dinner,  when  his  host  came 
round  the  table  to  sit  beside  him.  Shane  turned  a  scowling 
countenance;  he  wished  to  heaven  the  fellow  would  not 
be  so  punctilious  all  of  a  sudden.  It's  little  he  thought 

171 


of  his  manners  all  the  dinner  through.  Why  wouldn't 
he  now  be  talking  to  any  of  the  others?  The  Chinese- 
looking  chap  with  the  cold,  slow  eye ;  or  the  soldier  whose 
looks  and  genial,  courteous  ways  Shane  could  not  help 
liking,  but  who  "ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself  for  going 
on  the  way  he  did  with  that  little  woman — and  he  old 
enough  to  be  her  father!"  Could  he  not  talk  to  Blythe, 
even?  Any  one  of  them  could  stand  him,  he  saw  that. 
He  could  not.  He  had  a  sense  of  almost  physical  sickness 
as  the  bulldog  grin  appeared  at  his  shoulder. 

But  Sir  Timothy  with  his  male  guests  was  a  very  dif- 
ferent kind  of  person  from  Sir  Timothy,  the  host  of  his 
chosen  fair.  One  large  hairy  hand  fingering  his  brimming 
glass  of  champagne,  he  began : — 

"Aren't  you  the  lucky  man  who  bought  Sally-the-Lass, 
when  poor  Wycherley's  stables  were  up?  Confounded 
nuisance,  I  was  out  at  Cannes.  Only  place  in  the  world 
for  April,  Cannes.  You're  sick  of  hunting,  you  know; 
there  ain't  a  bird  in  the  air,  and  my  fishing's  late.  Cannes 
is  the  only  place.  But  I  was  sick  when  I  heard  that  I  had 
missed  Sally-the-Lass.  What  did  you  give  for  her? 
Whatever  it  was,  she  was  worth  it.  The  most  promising 
filly  I  ever  laid  eyes  on.  I  offered  poor  old  Tom  whatever 
he  liked  for  her — but  he  wouldn't  sell,  not  he!" 

Sir  Timothy  drained  his  beaker  at  what  seemed  one 
gulp,  and  refilled.  Wiping  the  froth  from  his  shaven  lip, 
he  drew  a  long  breath  and  rolled  his  gaze  reflectively  on 
Shane: — 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?  Do  you  think 
she'll  be  ready  for  the  Oaks?" 

"For  what?"  Shane  exclaimed,  with  his  Hibernian  as- 
piration. 

172 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

Sir  Timothy  stared  for  a  perceptible  space;  then  he 
cried : — 

"The  Oaks — you've  heard  of  the  Derby,  I  take  it." 

"Ay,  I've  heard  tell  of  the  Derby."  Shane's  tone  was 
dry. 

"You  mean  to  race  her,  don't  you?"  There  was  a 
strain  of  anxiety  in  the  old  sportsman's  whole  air.  "Good 
Heavens,  what  have  you  bought  her  for?" 

"To  ride  her." 

"To  ride  her !"  The  host's  astonishment  was  blent  with 
incredulity.  "You're  pulling  my  leg.  Ah,  you're  a  close 
fellow:  to  ride  her.  You  ride  thirteen  stones,  I  take  it, 
thin  as  you  are." 

"Begging  your  pardon,"  cried  Shane,  "not  an  ounce 
more  than  eleven  six." 

"Hum.  Lucky  fellow.  But  that's  not  the  point. 
There,  never  mind,  keep  your  own  counsel.  I've  no 
notion  of  prying.  But  you'll  not  tell  me  you've  given  all 
that  pot  of  money — a  jolly  pot  it  must  have  been  too. 
I  know  the  value  of  money,  and  I'd  not  fling  away  fancy 
sums  for  a  hack.  If  I  bought  her,  it  would  not  have  been 
to  ride  her,  you  imagine." 

He  laughed  good-humoredly,  looking  down  at  his  own 
bulk ;  tossed  half  the  wine  into  his  mouth  and,  swirling  the 
rest  round  and  round  the  glass,  proceeded : — 

"It  would  be  a  sin  not  to  race  her.  Good  Lord,  you're 
a  sportsman.  The  minute  I  clapped  my  eyes  on  you,  I 
knew  that.  You'll  do  the  sporting  thing,  you'll  race 
Sally." 

With  one  final  dexterous  swirl,  he  disposed  of  his 
champagne  and  seized  the  bottle  again.  Poising  it,  he 
glanced  at  Shane. 

173 


NEW  WINE 

"You're  not  drinking  that  port,  have  some  more  fizz?" 

"I  haven't  had  any." 

The  severity  of  Shane's  countenance  had  relaxed,  his 
grave  lips  were  almost  smiling. 

"Not  had  any !"  roared  his  host. 

"I  can't  abide  it,"  said  the  lad.  He,  who,  for  choice, 
would  never  have  drunk  anything  but  what  was  given  him 
by  the  well  in  the  old  keep  of  Kilmore — that  wonderful 
spring  that  Clenane  boasted  as  the  finest  in  the  barony — 
could  not,  as  he  had  told  Valentine  Blythe  time  and  again, 
"do  with  the  drinking  at  all."  To  sip  a  glass  of  port  at 
the  end  of  a  meal  was  as  much  as  he  could  bring  himself  to. 

"I  can't  bear  the  stuff,"  he  repeated,  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head  at  the  big  bottle,  "but  I  don't  mind  this." 

Sir  Timothy  gave  his  full-throated  laugh. 

"Hear  that,  Darcy?  My  lad  here  does  not  mind  my 
Sixty-Three.  Nay,  now" — he  laid  his  palm  on  Kilmore's 
knee  affectionately — "you're  a  wise  man.  You'll  never 
have  a  hand  like  this."  He  lifted  his  great  fist,  and  it  was 
plain  to  see  that  it  shook.  "You'll  not  believe  it,"  he 
went  on,  "but  I  can  still  do  my  day  with  the  best  of  them 
— can't  I,  Darcy?  But  it  takes  me  a  couple  of  goes  of 
brandy  to  steady  myself  in  the  morning.  Odd  thing, 
that  .  .  .  But  fact,  you  know.  Hair  of  the  dog.  Ah, 
my  boy " 

Sir  Timothy  leant  back  in  his  chair,  his  immense  white 
waistcoat  spreading  like  a  turbot,  and  let  his  eyes  rest  on 
the  youth  beside  him  with  fond  melancholy,  an  emotion  in 
which  that  half  magnum  had  certainly  some  share. 
"Deuce  take  me,  but  I  envy  3rou.  You've  got  it  all  still, 
and  you're  canny.  You're  wise,  I  say.  You  won't  fling 
it-  away.  And  to  beat  all  you've  bought  Sally-the-Lass ! 

174 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

Did  you  know  that,  Darcy?  He's  bought  Sally- the- 
Lass." 

It  would  not  have  been  human  nature,  especially  such 
young  human  nature  as  Shane's,  not  to  be  flattered. 
Colonel  Darcy  drew  his  chair  nearer  with  an  interested 
smile. 

"The  most  promising  filly  of  the  year,  I'm  told,"  he 
said,  "by  Robert-the-Devil,  out  of  Duchess  Sarah,  isn't 
she?  Ought  to  do  well,  what?" 

"He's  not  going  to  race  her,"  grumbled  Sir  Timothy. 

"What!"  ejaculated  the  Guardsman  in  quite  another 
tone. 

"My  lord  is  going  to  ride  her,  just  to  show  himself 
off  in  the  Row." 

"Not  at  all,  you're  out  of  it  altogether."  Shane  was 
smiling  broadly  now.  "None  of  that  circus  business  for 
me.  It's  after  the  hounds  I'll  take  her." 

"Good  God !— Sally-the-Lass !" 

But  Colonel  Darcy  did  not  seem  to  share  his  host's 
consternation.  He,  too,  ran  a  gaze  over  Shane  that  ap- 
praised him  from  head  to  foot. 

"If  he  wants  to,  why  shouldn't  he?"  He  turned  to 
Sir  Timothy.  "Lucky  young  man." 

"That's  what  I  said." 

"Isn't  she  the  grandest  lepper  I  ever  saw?"  Shane 
took  a  pull  at  his  port  and  the  rare  color  mounted  to 
his  cheek  bones  ;  his  eyes  flashed,  he  looked  extraordinarily 
handsome.  "And  I  know  something  about  it,  I  can  tell 
you.  'Tis  a  bird  she  is !  Of  course,  I'll  have  to  wait — 
but  it's  worth  waiting  for." 

Sir  Timothy's  grasp  was  going  rather  uncertainly 

175 


NEW  WINE 

towards  the  bottle  again,  when  Colonel  Darcy  inter- 
vened : — 

"Talking  of  waiting — I  say,  Tim,  charming  ladies — 
dull  without  us.  Hadn't  you  better  drink  your  coffee? 
Excuse  the  liberty  of  old  friendship,  you  know." 

Sir  Timothy  grunted  and  tilted  his  liqueur  glass  of 
brandy  into  his  coffee  cup.  Shane  slowly  finished  his 
single  glass  of  port.  At  the  end  of  the  table  Valentine 
Blythe  and  Mr.  Joscelyn  Browne  were  lost  in  cigarette 
smoke  and  a  discussion  on  Oriental  ceramic.  Through 
the  fumes  Valentine's  eyes,  however,  kept  a  careful  watch 
on  his  pupil. 

"Extraordinary  thing,  Lord  Kilmore,"  said  the  Colonel, 
as  they  rose  from  the  table,  "you're  so  like  your  late 
uncle — and  so  unlike!  Watched  you  drinking  port  just 
now.  Poor,  dear  fellow,  it  was  poison  to  him,  but  he 
would  have  his  way — I  expect  you  take  after  him  there — 
would  have  his  port,  you  know.  Drank  it  to  the  very  last, 
I'll  be  bound — had  a  glass  just  before  expiring,  what?" 

Shane  stopped  in  his  walk  towards  the  door  to  stare; 
his  face  darkened: — 

"And  that's  true,"  he  said.     "And  how  did  you  know?" 

"What,  he  did— did  he?"  cried  the  Colonel,  delighted. 
"That's  good.  Came  to  me  in  a  kind  of  flash,  what! 
You  see,  I  knew  your  uncle  very  well.  Yes,  great  friend 
of  mine.  You  knew  old  Kilmore,  didn't  you,  Tim?" 

"He  despised  me."  Sir  Timothy  gave  his  rumbling 
laugh.  "Couldn't  swallow  the  soap,  whatever  he  may 
have  done  with  the  port." 

Once  again  Shane  was  struck  with  the  imbecility  of  the 
witticisms  which  so  highly  amused  these  people.  While 
Sir  Timothy  gave  himself  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  own 

176 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

humor,  the  Colonel — perhaps  upon  him,  too,  the  passage 
of  so  many  noble  vintages  had  left  a  certain  effect — pro- 
ceeded reminiscently : — 

"You  remember  him,  anyhow.  Isn't  our  young  friend 
here  the  very  image  of  him?  A  hundred  times  more  like 
than  his  own  poor,  dear  boys.  Only  there's  one  tremen- 
dous difference,  what — poor  William  was  a  cold  fish — a 
cold  fish.  And  you,  Lord  Kilmore,"  his  glance  twinkled, 
"you  are,  well,  there's  some  fire  about  you — ain't  there? 
All  alive,  what?" 

"I  trust  and  hope,"  said  Shane,  "I  am  not  like  my  uncle. 
I  can't  help  my  face,"  he  cried,  "but  faith,  if  I  thought 
I  had  his  black  heart " 

Sir  Timothy  stopped  chuckling.  Blythe  and  Mr. 
Browne  came  curiously  forward  at  the  sound  of  the  raised 
voice.  Colonel  Darcy  stepped  back.  In  the  society  in 
which  he  moved,  you  can  make  as  much  noise  as  you  like, 
laugh  as  loud,  be  as  rude  and  vulgar,  even  offensive,  so 
long  as  it  is  all  merely  jocular;  but  the  moment  you  dis- 
play a  deep  feeling,  you  have  sinned  against  the  code: 
you  are  out  of  it,  impossible. 

"I  say,  we  are  forgetting  the  ladies."  The  old  flirt 
hurried  forward  and  opened  the  door  himself,  standing 
back  to  let  Kilmore  pass  out. 

Shane  had  become  suddenly  overshadowed  as  by  a  thun- 
dercloud; his  spirit  cowered  beneath  it.  The  Shane  that 
had  stood  and  flung  loyal  defiance  in  the  teeth  of  the  dying 
Lord  Kilmore  had  not  known  this  dreadful  feeling — re- 
morse. For  one  wild  moment  he  heard  that  old  Shane 
call  to  him,  and  he  hated  his  present  'self  and  his  present 
world.  Had  he  still  the  power  within  him  to  lift  strong 

177 


NEW  WINE 

wings,  and,  piercing  the  cloud,   return  to  those  spaces 
where  he  had  been  so  nobly  free? 

Through  the  open  door  of  the  drawing-room  there 
came  to  his  ear  broken  chords  and  the  melody  of  a  pure 
voice  uplifted;  to  his  eyes  the  vision  of  a  slender  gray 
figure,  seated  at  the  piano,  of  a  pale  face  turned  towards 
him,  of  a  singing  mouth.  No,  he  had  not  the  strength. 
Here  was  a  light  to  make  even  darkness  dear! 

He  went  straight  to  the  piano  and  sat  near  her.  She 
gave  him  a  little  smile,  as  if  welcoming  him — she  who  held 
herself  so  apart — into  the  circle  of  her  thoughts. 

"Dear  Venetia !"  said  Mr.  Blythe,  coming  up,  with  his 
most  ingenuous  air,  as  the  last  note  ethereally  faded, 
"how  quite  too  perfect !  But  give  me  the  pleasure — as 
our  grandfathers  used  to  say — of  hearing  you  in  UHeure 
Exquise" 

She  looked  fugitively  at  Shane  and  hesitated.  Then 
striking  vague,  murmurous  harmonies : — 

"Why  do  you  want  that?"  she  asked.  "It  is  so  de- 
cadent." 

Blythe  blushed  and  wriggled. 

"My  anomalous  nature !  In  most  of  the  arts  I  am  for 
the  eighteenth  century,  certainly.  But  in  music — well, 
if  you  call  it  decadent,  I  do  prefer  Debussy  to  Scarlatti." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  Lady  Hobson  had 
begun  the  song. 

Shane  did  not  understand  one  word  of  French,  but  per- 
haps all  the  more  poignantly  did  the  bizarre  languors,  the 
vague  intervals,  the  singularity,  the  plaintiveness,  the  mys- 
tery of  the  music  seize  hold  of  him.  Her  voice  rose  wild 
and  sweet  like  the  cry  of  a  flying  bird:  "C'est  Vlieure 
exqulse  .  .  .  !"  it  faded  at  last,  and  fell  silent. 

178 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

The  silence  held  for  a  spell.  Blythe  had  walked  away 
from  the  piano :  it  was  one  of  his  minor  impertinences  to 
slip  unexpectedly  from  the  height  of  enthusiasm  to  the 
depth  of  indifference.  Shane  drew  a  long  breath;  then 
she  spoke: — 

"Don't  you  think  it's  decadent?" 

"I  don't  know  what  that  means.'* 

"No,  I'm  sure  you  don't." 

He  still  did  not  understand ;  but  he  could  not  mistake 
the  caress  of  a  delicate  approval. 

"It's  the  ignorant  fellow  I  am,"  he  said,  with  a  dogged 
humility.  "Sure  I  couldn't  tell  in  the  world  what  lan- 
guage you  sang  in,  nor  anything,  barring  the  loveliness. 
I  understood  that  right  enough,"  he  added  between  his 
teeth. 

"It's  French.  You're  not  more  ignorant  than  many 
another,  I  assure  you.  If  you  think  Sir  Timothy  under- 
stands any  French  except" — her  lip  had  a  faint  twist  of 
scorn — "what's  spoken  over  the  roulette  table.  L'Heure 
Exquise"  she  went  on,  with  a  sudden  smile  like  one  drop- 
ping sadness  to  turn  to  joy,  "means  the  Hour  Exquisite." 

"Faith,  I  knew  as  much!" 

On  the  Irishman's  intent  and  ardent  face  came  an  an- 
swering smile,  transfiguring. 

"Of  course,"  she  struck  a  chord,  "the  words  are  al- 
most the  same,  are  they  not?" 

Jocundity  still  hovered  on  her  lips,  but  Shane  felt  as 
if  he  were  subtly  thrust  out  of  the  privileged  circle;  most 
courteously,  but  most  certainly  rebuked  for  presumption. 
He  sat  dumb. 

"I  have  sung  for  Mr.  Blythe,"  said  Venetia  Hobson,  at 
the  exact  moment  when  the  pause  seemed  to  become  un- 

179 


NEW  WINE 

bearable,  "now  I  will  sing  for  you  'My  Little  Gray  Home 
in  the  West '  " 

The  song  was  familiar  to  Shane.  It  had  already,  in- 
deed, been  sung  to  him  by  a  musical  damsel  who  thought 
that  she  could  very  well  overlook  the  lacuna  in  the  new 
Lord  Kilmore's  education.  He  had  found  nothing  to 
admire  then  in  it.  Little  they  knew  about  Ireland,  and 
little  he  cared  to  hear  them  chant  of  her  in  their  fine 
English  accent.  But  to-night ! 

Venetia's  voice  was  wonderfully  flexible  and  pure, 
though  of  no  great  volume;  one  of  those  voices  trained 
to  that  perfection  of  art  which  seems  like  nature.  It 
rose  as  crystal  clear  as  waters  springing;  it  trilled  as 
sure  in  sweetness  as  blackbird  to  the  dawn.  It  had  ex- 
quisite falls  and  tender  veilings,  and  always  that  ring, 
pathetic,  indescribable,  that  so  unerringly  pierces  to  the 
sadness  which  lurks  somewhere  in  every  soul.  Shane's 
heart  swelled. 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,"  he  cried,  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, "how  did  you  come  by  it  all?" 

"By  what,  Lord  Kilmore?" 

"The  sorrow  and  the  longing  of  my  own  poor  coun- 
try." 

"But  it's  quite  a  happy  song !" 

She  was  striking  one  ivory  note  with  a  finger  scarcely 
less  pale,  and  smiling  at  him,  with  sidesweep  of  eyes  un- 
der long  lashes.  She  had  two  ways  of  looking  at  him,  as 
he  had  found  already.  One  with  a  full  gaze  of  sorrow  and 
appeal  in  which  she  admitted  him  to  some  secret  of  never- 
to-be-spoken  tragedy ;  and  the  other,  as  now,  with  a  kind 
of  enchanting,  mocking  invitation,  swift  given,  swift  with- 
drawn. Shane  turned  a  little  giddy  under  that  look. 

180 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

"Your  home  was  in  the  West,  wasn't  it?"  She  struck 
single  notes,  barely  audible,  between  her  words. 

Up  among  the  ruins,  built  of  the  fallen  stones  of  the 
castle  of  the  great  old  Kilmores.  .  .  .  Such  a  poor  place ! 
A  kind  of  nest  in  the  rocks,  just  a  shelter  from  the  storms. 
He  told  her  of  it  in  stammering  phrases,  each  one  of  which 
held  its  vivid  picture. 

"The  winds  will  come  tearing  across  from  the  Atlantic 
• — you'd  think  they'd  blow  the  cliff  away.  The  wind's 
always  upon  us.  You  may  say  the  boom  of  the  waves 
is  never  out  of  our  ears,  over  there.  Ay,  I've  got  a  little 
gray  house  in  the  west — and,  as  you  sang,  I  saw  it,  and 
my  heart  was  heavy  to  think  of  the  door  barred  and  the 
cold  chimney." 

"And  you  were  longing  to  get  back?" 

"God  help  me !"  cried  Shane,  staring  at  her  with 
haunted  blue  eyes,  "I  was  not." 

"Ah !"  She  passed  over  his  self-betrayal  with  a  con- 
summate unconsciousness.  Like  an  elfin  knell  the  scarcely 
sounded  note  rang  on.  "I'd  like  to  see  the  nest  in  the 
rocks,  some  day." 

She  flung  across  the  keys  two  or  three  rippling  chords 
which  rang  like  a  sweeping  of  harp  strings,  then  she  got 
up.  Shane  sprang  to  his  feet,  too,  and  planted  himself 
in  front  of  her. 

"I  ought  to  be  thanking  you,"  he  cried  with  an  effort, 
"for  the  room  you've  given  me.  I'm  told  it's  beautiful. 
I  can  see  for  myself  it's  grand — though,"  his  lips  twitched 
with  a  boyish  smile  under  his  small  black  mustache,  "I'm 
not  educated  enough,  Blythe  tells  me,  to  admire  that  pair 
of  monsters  with  the  grin  on  them,  sitting  by  the  hearth. 
But  there  are  things  I'm  quick  enough  to  see  for  myself, 

181 


NEW  WINE 

for  all  I  grew  up  as  wild  as  the  colts — and  that's  your 
sweet  kindness.  To  think  of  your  leaving  those  Irish 
books  for  me  to  read " 

She  had  listened  to  him  with  downcast  lids.  Once  again 
the  faint  smile  flickered  and  was  gone.  Then  a  gravity 
came  over  her :  gravely  she  fixed  him,  gravely  she  spoke : — 

"I  know  what  it  is  to  feel  like  a  stranger  in  a  strange 
land." 

"Ah,  God  help  you!"  he  exclaimed,  "that  was  what 
your  eyes  were  saying  out  of  the  picture." 

She  lifted  her  finger  to  her  lip. 

"Hush !" 

He  was  not  sure,  but  he  thought,  and  it  nearly  un- 
manned him,  that  the  tears  rose  as  she  moved  away.  He 
wheeled  quickly  to  follow,  and  saw  to  his  amazement  that 
the  room  was  empty.  Through  the  open  door  from  across 
the  hall,  came  the  click  of  billiard  balls,  the  noise  of  voices 
and  laughter. 

"Well,  if  that's  manners " 

Lady  Hobson  looked  over  her  shoulder  with  her  wist- 
ful smile. 

"Oh,  yes — not  such  bad  manners,  after  all,  Lord  Kil- 
more.  They  wouldn't  drown  my  poor  little  pipe  with 
their  conversation." 

Shane  listened  a  moment,  then  to  his  clear-cut  face 
there  came  a  fine  disdain : — 

"Glory  be  to  God — and  will  you  tell  me,  is  that  the  way 
they're  going  on  from  morning  till  night?" 

He  was  beside  her  again,  and  slowly  they  stepped  into 
the  great  hall. 

"Not  only  from  morning  till  night,"  she  said,  her  gen- 

182 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

tie  voice  unmoved  by  satire,  "but  right  into  the  small 
hours." 

"And  that  is  what's  called  pleasure?  The  unfortunate 
creatures !"  Shane's  tone  dropped  from  contempt  to 
pity.  "Will  no  one  of  them  ever  have  tasted  the  blessed- 
ness of  silence?" 

"Ah,  Lord  Kilmore,"  said  Venetia,  "thank  you!  The 
blessedness  of  silence !  It  is  not  often  I  hear  a  word  I 
can  take  away  with  me  into" — her  voice  fell  to  one  of  its 
entrancing  inflections — "into  my  silence.  Good-night." 

He  watched  her  mount  the  wide  stairs  with  her  slow 
grace.  Then  he  went  straight  to  his  Chinese  room. 
"What  would  I  be  doing  down  *  there  among  them? 
Wouldn't  it  drive  me  crazy — after — after  my  exquisite 
hour?" 

He  was  still  sitting  between  the  monsters,  before  the 
white  ash  of  his  fireplace,  when  a  red-eyed,  pale-cheeked 
Valentine  Blythe  poked  his  head  gently  into  the  room. 

"Lord,  Kil,  not  in  your  beauty  sleep?" 

Shane  roused  himself  and  looked  at  the  clock. 

"By  the  powers,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  close  on  two!" 

"And  what  have  you  been  about,  my  fine  young  man?" 
said  Valentine,  entering  and  closing  the  door  behind  him. 
"You're  going  it  pretty  rapid  for  a  pious  youth  just  out 
of  the  catechism  class." 

"And  what  might  you  be  meaning?" 

Shane  got  up,  to  turn  a  blazing  gaze  upon  his  friend. 

Mr.  Blythe  arrested  himself  in  the  middle  of  a  yawn. 
He  was  a  trifle  swimmy  in  the  head — Tim  was  such  a  fel- 
low for  thrusting  drink  upon  you!  And  he'd  lost  more 
than  he  cared  to  think  on  over  that  last  game  of  bridge. 

183 


NEW  WINE 

But  he  had  wits   enough  left  to  perceive  that  his   bar- 
barian was  "looking  ugly."     He  hastened  to  retract: 

"Don't  frighten  me!  I'm  not  strong.  What  should 
I  mean?  Nothing  at  all,  except  that  these  are  late  hours 
for  a  man  to  keep — especially  alone."  He  paused,  then 
curiosity  got  the  better  of  discretion.  "What  did  be- 
come of  you?"  he  questioned  in  his  most  insinuating  voice. 

"What  became  of  me?  It  was  sitting  here  by  the  fire 
I  was,  Mr.  Blythe.  And  if  you  want  the  truth,  I'm  think- 
ing my  own  company  is  a  deal  better  than  that  you'd 
have  me  mixing  with  downstairs.  Look  at  here,  now — 
Shane  was  very  much  in  earnest,  unwontedly  fatigued, 
bodily  and  mentally;  and  this  was  the  wan  hour,  just  be- 
fore the  dawn,  the  hour  in  which  humanity  is  most  forlorn. 
The  old  turn  of  phrase,  the  strong  Hibernian  intona- 
tion, came  back  in  full  force  to  hk  tongue.  "Look  at 
here,  we  may  as  well  understand  each  other  first  as  last. 
I  never  was  one  to  be  spending  my  nights  in  the  public 
house.  I  never  liked  drink,  nor  cards,  nor  found  anything 
pleasant  in  the  talk  that  does  be  going  with  them." 

"My  dear  Kilmore!"  Mr.  Blythe  took  a  backward 
step;  he  was  really  affronted.  The  coarse,  common  na- 
ture of  the  peasant  was  coming  out  with  a  vengeance ! 

"Ah,"  went  on  Shane,  with  his  native  intuition,  "you 
think  I've  no  call  to  be  saying  these  things — you'd  rather 
see  me  half  drunk,  like  our  host  down  there,  or  that  old 
soldier  that  might  be  showing  a  better  example,  he  that's 
had  the  command  of  men!  But  there's  just  two  things 
that  had  best  be  made  clear  between  us.  And  one  is: 
I'll  have  no  part  with  your  crew  here.  I  hate  and  abomi- 
nate them  and  their  ways,  and  their  talk  and  their  looks ! 
They're  no  fit  company  for  any  one  who  wants  to  keep  his 

184 


THE  HOUR  EXQUISITE 

self-respect.  Public  house,  is  it?  I  seen  you  cock  your 
nostril  at  the  mention  of  such  low  things.  Huthen,  I'll 
tell  you  the  people  you  meet  there — and  what  if  they  had 
drink  taken,  the  poor  creatures,  they'd  be  ashamed — 

"But  really,"  interrupted  Blythe,  struggling  between 
alarm  and  amusement,  "do  remember,  dear  lad,  who 
wanted  to  come  here." 

Shane's  face  altered. 

"That's  true  for  you — I'm  not  blaming  you,  Val.  You 
can't  help  it.  You're  a  decent  fellow  yourself,  I  know 
that;  and  it's  not  your  fault  if  these  are  the  ways  of 
the  fine  folk  you've  got  to  live  with." 

Mr.  Blythe's  face  was  a  study.  As  Shane  paused,  he 
said  with  airiness,  but  narrowly  watching,  the  while,  his 
companion : — 

"And  of  course,  Kilmore,  there's  nothing  easier  for  you 
than  to  get  away.  That's  one  comfort  about  our  lax 
principles— lax  we  are,  I  own  it:  it's  so  much  better  than 
being  hypocritical — nobody  will  care  how  soon  you  take 
the  train." 

"I'll  do  no  such  thing  1"  cried  the  other,  with  a  return 
of  fierceness.  "Didn't  I  know,  when  I  saw  the  picture, 
how  that  poor  lady  wanted  a  friend?  Well,  it's  what  I 
came  up  here  for.  And  if  she'll  make  a  friend  of  me, 
I'll  be  proud." 

My  Blythe  opened  his  mouth  to  laugh  and  exclaim, 
but  shut  it  again  at  sight  of  Shane's  countenance. 
"Good  Lord,"  he  cried  to  himself,  "the  fellow's  in  deadly 
earnest!  By  Heaven,  it  is  Launcelot — thinking  himself 
Galahad!" 

"And  that  brings  me  to  the  second  point  of  my  re- 
marks to  you,"  went  on  Shane,  still  hotly  wroth.  "I'm 

185 


NEW  WINE 

not  accustomed  to  have  comments  upon  my  conduct  from 
any  one ;  and  I'll  not  take  them  from  any  one,  mark  that. 
I  go  my  own  way,  and  I've  got  no  account  to  render, 
barring  to  God."  His  anger  suddenly  dropped,  and  he 
added  rather  piteously,  passing  his  hand  over  his  fore- 
head, "I  hope  I'll  never  forget  that." 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Valentine,  with  a  kind  of  feminine 
spitefulness. 

He  went  out  of  the  room  in  a  huff.  As  he  shut  the 
door,  he  began  to  whistle  under  his  breath — rather  false, 
because  Shane  had  said  two  or  three  things  that  stung 
even  his  well  armored  conscience. 

Shane's  conscience  was  not  well  armored.  And  Blythe, 
on  his  side,  had  left  a  sting  in  it  which  rankled  sorely.  A 
pious  youth  from  the  catechism  class ! 

Shane  had  said  to  the  old  Lord  Kilmore  that  he  would 
never  give  up  his  faith  and  his  love.  His  love  he  had  cast 
away — was  his  faith  going,  too?  What  was  the  worth 
of  a  man's  faith  if  he  didn't  act  up  to  it  ? 

"Oh,  no,  no !"  he  cried  aloud,  and  falling  upon  his  knees 
beside  the  bed,  prayed,  wringing  clasped  hands,  almost  in 
agony,  "I  want  to  keep  good — Help  me  to  help  her  with- 
out sinning!" 


"QUEER    SAYINGS 

I 

"You  come  along  o'  me,"  Sir  Timothy  had  whispered, 
nudging  Shane  in  the  ribs  after  breakfast.  "I'll  give 
you  as  good  a  morning's  sport  as  you  ever  had  in  your 
life.  Got  a  bit  of  water  up  there  in  the  hills,  kept  it  for 
you  to-day.  I  like  going  out  with  a  fellow  who  under- 
stands the  job.  Hush!  don't  let  on.  I  don't  want  those 
other  chaps  to  come  and  fool  over  it.  No — nor  the 
women  either." 

Shane  hesitated  and  stammered. 

"We'll  just  slip  out  as  if  for  a  bit  of  a  stroll.  I've  told 
'em  to  put  your  rods  and  all  the  rest  of  it  into  the  car. 
It's  waiting  outside  the  stable  gates,  and  we'll  jump  in 
and  off  with  us.  Right  away  in  the  hills.  The  loveliest 
spot,"  added  Sir  Timothy  in  a  gusty  whisper,  "you  ever 
saw  in  your  life." 

But  if  the  sportsman  in  Shane  was  tempted,  there 
was  yet  a  stronger  entity  in  him,  that  of  the  lover. 

"If  it  wasn't  that  I  promised  Lady  Hobson " 

Sir  Timothy  who  had  approached  his  guest  with  all 
the  elation  of  a  good-natured  man  about  to  confer  an 
immense  favor,  drew  back,  scowling  heavily.  Shane  went 
on  steadily,  though  he  felt  his  color  rise. 

"It  was  after  tea  last  evening,  she  said  she'd  show  me 
the  gardens.  I  wouldn't  like  to  seem  to  be  forgetting 
her  kindness." 

187 


NEW  WINE 

"Her  ladyship?  Her  ladyship  won't  be  out  of  her  pil- 
lows for  another  couple  of  hours.  Such  a  morning  with 
the  clouds  coming  up  and  bit  of  a  wind  and  all!  And 
she'll  keep  you  dangling,  and  ten  to  one  not  show  her  nose 
till  lunch."  As  Shane  stood  silent,  his  host  went  on, 
glowering  ever  more : — 

"Please  yourself;  this  is  Liberty  Hall." 

Lady  Kenneth's  strident  voice  sounded,  from  the  stairs. 

"I  say,  Tim,  what  are  you  up  to?" 

Sir  Timothy  made  a  gesture  enjoining  secrecy  on 
Shane  and  hurriedly  proceeded  to  haul  himself  out 
through  the  open  window.  Shane,  set  though  he  was  on 
his  purpose,  looked  after  him  with  a  double  regret.  No 
one  is  more  sensitive  to  kindness  than  the  Irishman. 

"The  fellow  meant  it  well,  and  he's  in  the  right  of  it. 
It's  real  fisherman's  morning.  Ton  my  word,  I'd  have 
liked  to  have  gone  off  with  him  into  the  hills  and  shown 
him  that  I  can  kill  a  salmon." 

Sunshine  and  cloud  wrangled  in  the  high  heavens,  and 
there  were  tart  and  sweet  winds  with  the  tang  of  the  sea 
in  them,  which  brought  Shane's  soul  with  a  leap  back  to 
his  own  cliffs.  "I'd  have  liked  it  fine"— but  there  was 
something  finer  that  he  liked  more.  As  he  stood  medi- 
tating, feeling  rather  like  the  vessel  that  tosses  on  tum- 
bling waters,  and  is  yet  anchored,  Lady  Kenneth  appeared 
at  the  door — Lady  Kenneth,  appropriately  attired  for 
breakfast  in  the  country  in  a  short  tweed  skirt  and  a 
grass-green  sports  coat,  with  her  black  head  marvelously 
waved  and  curled,  larger  pearls  in  her  ears  than  Shane 
had  conceived  possible,  and  all  her  war  paint  on. 

"I  say,  where's  Tiny  Tim?" 

188 


"QUEER  SAYINGS" 

"Huthen,  I  haven't  a  notion,"  said  Shane,  with  perfect 
truth. 

Lady  Kenneth  dashed  away  the  cigarette  she  had  been 
waving,  and  began  to  scream. 

"He's  up  to  something — Tim!  He's  bolted.  I  said  he 
was  up  to  something  this  morning.  Tim — Tim!"  she  ran 
to  the  window  and  cast  out  of  it  her  utmost  shriek.  It 
was  answered,  as  if  mockingly,  by  the  hoot  of  a  car.  She 
turned  angrily  upon  her  fellow  guest.  "He's  given  me 
the  slip.  He's  left  me  here  alone  with  the  Chinaman 
and  that  idiot  Val  Ely  the.  It's  too  bad !" 

"What  about  Colonel  Darcy?" 

Shane  put  the  question  banteringly.  After  all,  he 
could  not  altogether  avoid  passing  a  word  or  two  with 
the  creature ;  and  though  she  railed,  there  was  something 
frankly  jovial  about  her  which  belied  her  words  and  tone. 

"Darcy !"  she  laughed  with  a  crow.  "You  don't  know 
me  yet,  Lord  Kilmore,  or  you'd  know  I'm  not  a  spoil- 
sport." 

"What  about  me?"  said  Shane,  with  a  broad  grin, 
"will  I  fill  a  gap?" 

"You?"  Her  handsome  black  eye  rested  ponderingly 
upon  him. 

"If  I  could  be  of  any  use  for  an  hour." 

"An  hour?     Well,  upon  my  word !" 

"Lady  Hobson's  going  to  show  me  the  gardens,  she 
said,  some  time  about  noon." 

Lady  Kenneth  pursed  her  mouth  for  a  soundless  whis- 
tle. 

"Now,  Lord  Kilmore,"  she  cried.  Then:  "I'm  wonder- 
ing, are  you  the  coolest  card  that  ever  came  my  way — 
or She  paused. 


NEW  WINE 

Shane  made  no  answer.  Here  it  was  again.  What  a 
set  they  were,  that  they  must  be  judging  everybody  by 
their  own  crooked  standard!  After  a  moment  she  an- 
swered herself. 

"I  do  believe — yes,  positively !  Lord  Kilmore,  I'm  glad 
to  meet  you.  It  is  extraordinarily  refreshing  to  think 
that  such  guilelessness  even  exists."  An  odd  change  came 
over  her  hard,  painted  face.  She  blinked,  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  went  down;  then  she  sniffed,  and  unabash- 
edly drew  a  large  white  hand  flashing  with  jewels  across 
her  nostrils.  "Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "I  had  a  little 
boy  once,  and  he  died.  It  drove  me  distracted.  I  always 
said  if  he'd  lived  I'd  never — oh,  well,  never  mind:  I  dare 
say  I  would,  all  the  same.  But  when  I  look  at  you,  I'm 
glad  he's  gone.  He  might  have  grown  up  to  be  just  what 
you  are.  He  was  a  good  little  laddie — what  you  are  now, 
Lord  Kilmore,  what  you  won't  be  in  another  month  or 
two.  Couldn't  have  escaped,  no  more  than  you  will." 
She  came  quite  close  to  him  as  she  finished  these  extraor- 
dinary remarks,  and  laid  her  bejeweled  hand  on  his  arm. 
"You  won't  be  advised,  I  suppose?  Just  get  a  telegram, 
or,  better  still,  walk  to  the  station  and  take  the  first  train, 
and  telegraph  for  your  luggage?  Come,  I'll  walk  with 
you  part  of  the  way." 

She  was  so  close  to  him  that  he  could  see  the  paint 
gritty  on  her  skin,  the  smudges  under  her  eyes,  the  ver- 
milion varnish  on  her  lips.  "I've  seen  a  clown  do  bet- 
ter," he  thought  disgustedly.  And  what  was  she  after 
at  all?  The  next  moment  she  explained  herself  very 
clearly. 

"If  you  let  Venetia  Hobson  get  hold  of  you,  you  un- 
happy child— 

190 


"QUEER  SAYINGS" 

He  flung  a  single  glance  at  her,  and  walked  away.  No 
blasphemy  could  have  sounded  more  hideous  in  his  ears. 
Ah,  but  wasn't  it  always  the  devil's  way  to  blaspheme 
against  the  best,  the  purest,  the  holiest?  Wasn't  she  as 
good  as  the  devil's  daughter?  A  man  had  only  to  lay 
eyes  on  her  and  her  goings  on  with  another  woman's  hus- 
band, and  she  screaming  for  Sir  Timothy,  only  a  moment 
ago,  tearing  the  place  down  because  he  had  escaped  her 
for  once!  And  did  not  his  own  lady  keep  her  at  a  dis- 
tance and  show  with  every  look,  and  every  silence  and 
every  cold  word  how  she  despised  her  and  the  rest  of  them? 
Likely,  indeed,  that  he  would  believe  a  word  from  that 
tongue  against  Venetia !  He  wanted  to  get  out  into  the 
clean  airs  and  feel  them  blow  about  him ;  wanted,  too,  the 
solitude  to  put  some  order  into  the  turmoil  of  his 
thoughts ;  but  he  had  hardly  crossed  the  hall  before  Lady 
Kenneth  overtook  him. 

"I  say,"  she  began,  in  the  most  everyday  manner.  "It's 
only  just  a  quarter  to  eleven.  Let's  take  a  stroll  and 
smoke  the  cigarette  of  peace."  She  added  hastily,  as  she 
saw  denial  in  his  eye:  "I've  been  a  fool  .  .  .  I'm  sorry. 
Don't  be  a  fool,  too.  And,  after  all,  what  does  it  mat- 
ter, since  you  don't  believe  a  word  I  said?" 

She  smiled  with  those  fine  teeth,  that  looked  so  oddly 
discolored  against  the  unnatural  scarlet  of  her  lips.  He 
thought  her  horrible ;  but  he  went. 

"Come,"  said  Lady  Kenneth,  "when  you've  seen  a  lit- 
tle more  of  me,  you  will  find  I'm  the  best  fellow  in  the 
world.  I  told  you  just  now  I  wouldn't  spoil  sport  for  any 
one — and  I  won't.  We'll  just  keep  up  and  down  here; 
and  you  can  let  Venetia  see  how  patiently  you're  waiting 
for  her — when  she  appears."  She  blew  the  cigarette 

191 


NEW  WINE 

smoke  through  her  nostrils,  smiling  with  closed  lips  the 
while,  fixing  Shane  through  narrowed  lids.  "When  she 
appears,"  she  repeated.  They  had  reached  the  end  of 
the  terrace ;  she  pivoted  on  her  heels  with  an  abrupt  move- 
ment that  brought  her  up  face  to  face  with  her  compan- 
ion. "She  won't  come,  you  know,"  she  added  airily. 

Sir  Timothy  had  made  the  same  remark.  Shane 
thought  he  knew  better  than  these  two ;  he  gave  no  reply. 

"Ah,  you've  got  a  lot  to  learn,  young  man,"  said  Lady 
Kenneth,  starting  to  walk  again  with  a  freedom  of  gait 
which  was  not  without  a  kind  of  insolent  fascination. 
After  a  few  steps,  she  resumed:  "I  can't  help  wonder- 
ing what  in  the  name  of  all  that's  odd,  brought  you  and 
Valentine  Blythe  together.  You  and  Val  Blythe — it's 
preposterous !" 

"Why  not?"  Shane  had  fallen  back  on  his  ineradicable 
Hibernian  evasiveness. 

"Why  not?  Why,  every  not  in  the  world!  He  has 
not  one  thought  in  common  with  you.  He's  not  a  fit  com- 
panion for  a  jolly,  open-air  creature  like  you.  He  has 
not  one  single  manly  notion  in  his  rotten  little  head.  And 
he'll  not  do  you  any  good.  He's  as  bad  a  little  hat  as 
ever  came  into  this  house — and  that's  saying  a  good  deal. 
And  you — I  told  you  just  now  you're  too  good  to  be  here 
at  all." 

Contemning  the  compliment,  Shane  removed  his  ciga- 
rette to  remark  sarcastically  that  Lady  Kenneth  seemed 
to  have  a  good  opinion  of  her  friends. 

"Friends!"  She  gave  a  short  laugh,  "I  know  the  peo- 
ple, that's  all.  You  don't.  Every  time  I  look  at  you  I 
ask  myself,  tQue  diable  vient-il  faire  dans  cette  galere?' 
Beg  pardon,  I  forgot,  you're  not  likely  to  have  picked  up 

192 


"QUEER  SAYINGS" 

French  on  the  west  coast.  Well,  it  just  means:  'Who 
the  devil  has  brought  you  into  such  company?' ' 

Shane's  mind  went  back  with  a  leap :  some  one  else  had 
spoken  French  to  him,  and  had  translated:  Tlie  Hour 
Exquisite!  That  hour  impregnated  with  fragrance,  with 
music,  with  sweetness ;  with,  for  him,  worship.  He  was 
not  likely  to  tell  Lady  Kenneth  what  had  brought  him 
here. 

"As  for  poor  Blythe,  what  have  you  got  against  the 
fellow?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"Val,  you  mean?"  she  laughed  again,  with  a  sniff  down 
her  nostrils.  "Oh,  nothing,  only  that  he's  a  little  worm !" 
She  dropped  her  half-smoked  cigarette  and  put  her  foot 
on  it  as  if  she  were  crushing  the  said  worm ;  then,  stopping 
to  pick  out  another  from  her  case,  she  proceeded :  "Just 
now  what  I've  got  against  him  is  his  bringing  you  here." 

"Well,  you've  nothing  against  him,  then,  if  that's  all. 
For,  as  to  my  coming  here —  He  paused  for  a  mo- 

ment, his  eyes  fixed  with  rapt  gaze  on  the  far-away  hills. 
"There's  nothing  in  the  world  I  wanted  so  much  as  to 
come  here,"  he  said.  Then,  bringing  his  glance  back  to 
her,  with  a  glint  of  mirth:  "You  want  to  know  what  I 
find  in  Mr.  Blythe.  I'll  tell  you,  now :  good  nature.  He's 
always  willing  to  oblige.  And  he's  obliged  me." 

"But — please  don't  walk  on,  Lord  Kilmore,  I  must  light 
my  cigarette  from  yours — but  I  hadn^t  the  least  idea — 
I  thought — certainly  I  understood  that  you'd  never  met 
Lady  Hobson  before,  nor  Tim  either." 

Shane  had  already  said  too  much.  He  patiently  al- 
lowed his  fingers  to  be  clutched  while  she  lighted  her  ciga- 
rette: she,  on  her  side,  paused  frequently  in  the  process 
to  stare  up  at  him  with  avid  eyes  of  curiosity. 

193 


NEW  WINE 

"Maybe,"  he  said,  as  they  drew  apart  at  last,  "I'd 
heard  what  a  sportsman  Sir  Timothy  is.  Maybe  I  had 
a  fancy  to  kill  a  Scotch  salmon.  Anyhow,  I  wanted  to 
come." 

"Bosh." 

"If  it  comes  to  that,  why  are  you  here  yourself?" 

She  gave  him  an  angry  glance  over  her  shoulder. 

"If  you're  going  to  be  cheeky !"  she  checked  her- 
self. "Why  do  I  come  here?  Because  I  like  to  get  away 
for  Whitsuntide — and  I  like  a  place  where  there's  a  lot 
of  money  going — there's  money  going  here  still,  though 
poor  Tim  is  in  a  regular  financial  mess — and  I  like  good 
food,  and  I  can  have  a  decent  game  of  bridge.  And,  be- 
sides, I  like  old  Tim.  Yes,  I  like  old  Tim.  I'm  awfully 
fond  of  him.  And  I'm  sorry  for  him,  too." 

Perhaps  she  read  on  his  countenance  something  of  the 
contempt  that  filled  his  soul;  she  dropped  the  sentimen- 
tal tone,  and  burst  forth : — 

"Why  do  any  of  us  come  here?  Because  we  can't  go 
anywhere  else.  Who's  going  to  come  up  here,  do  you 
think,  excepting  creatures  like  me;  creatures  like  Dorrie 
Thurso?"  her  laugh  became  dreadful.  "And  Venetia's 
got  to  have  some  one,  if  only  for  the  men  to  take  in  to  din- 
ner!" 

They  were  close  to  the  end  of  the  terrace,  and  Shane 
paused  by  the  balustrade.  Stone  vases  were  set  on  it  at 
intervals,  brimmed  with  forget-me-nots,  out  of  which  tall 
tulips  rose;  the  sweet  wine-scent  from  the  yellow  chalices 
came  to  his  nostrils.  There  were  white  narcissus,  too,  at 
the  foot  of  the  walls.  And  the  airs  were  full  of  the  in- 
describable perfumes  of  young  beech  leaves  and  of  the 
sappy  thrusting  green  that  was  lush  everywhere.  So 

194 


"QUEER  SAYINGS" 

fresh  and  fair  a  day,  so  noble  a  prospect,  so  vivid  a  sky, 
where  white  cloud  and  sunshine  made  glorious  play ;  in  his 
own  heart  such  high,  reverent,  tender  emotions,  and  in  his 
ears — this  talk !  Oh,  how  must  she  suffer,  when  even  he 
felt  every  breath  he  drew  poisoned ! 

"These  are  very  queer  sayings,"  pronounced  the  young 
man  at  last ;  "and  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  how  we  came 
by  this  sort  of  discussion  at  all.  It  wouldn't  be  for  me 
to  be  judging  you,  or  Lady  Thurso  either.  I'm  no  judge 
of  grand  ladies,"  said  poor  Shane. 

She  interrupted  him. 

"Grand  ladies !  You're  too  delicious !  Dorrie  Thurso 
• — the  Frivolity  girl  who  married  a  wretched  imbecile 
youth " 

"Well,  it's  no  matter.  She  won't  do  me  any  harm, 
anyhow — nor  will  you  either." 

She  made  an  odd  grimace.  "Oh,  you  foolish  child. 
I  want  to  do  you  good  and  you  won't  let  me.  You  know 
too  much  about  me,  I  expect." 

"I  know  nothing  at  all  about  you." 

"What?" 

"Barring  what  I've  seen  for  myself." 

Amazement  had  been  stamped  on  Lady  Kenneth's  coun- 
tenance. Now,  under  her  paint,  she  crimsoned. 

"Thank  you.  It  sounds  complimentary.  Of  course 
I  don't  believe  you:  I  know  Val's  tongue." 

"He  never  so  much  as  mentioned  your  name." 

She  became  exceedingly  thoughtful. 

"What's  his  little  game?"  she  said,  half  audibly.  Then, 
staring  at  Shane:  "Yet  you  were  together  an  hour  be- 
fore dinner  last  night.  What  is  his  little  game?"  she 
repeated  aloud,  "Listen  to  me,  Lord  Kilmore,"  she  went 

195 


NEW  WINE 

on,  as  he  met  the  question  with  the  silence  which  he  found 
his  best  weapon.  "I'll  tell  you  then.  I'm  as  well-born 
as  any  woman  in  this  kingdom.  I'm  a  duke's  daughter. 
I  married  a  Campbell  of  Inverisle.  He  was  a  beast  to 
me,  and  I  dare  say  I  was  a  beast  to  him.  And  when  I 
lost  my  boy,  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  more.  I  ran  away 
with  a  cousin  of  my  own,  the  brother  of  the  man  who 
stepped  into  my  father's  shoes.  He's  about  as  sick  of 
me  now  as  I  am  of  him.  He  goes  his  way,  I  go  mine. 
I've  made  every  mistake  a  woman  can  make,  and  of  course 
I'm  jolly  well  punished.  But  that's  justice.  Hit  a 
woman  when  she's  down,  because  she's  down.  However, 
that's  neither  here  nor  there,  you  needn't  turn  your  eyes 
away  like  that.  Ah,  you  shall  listen  to  me !  Don't  think 
I've  told  you  all  this  to  stop  now.  I  will  say  it.  Bad  as 
you  think  me,  I'm  better  company  for  you  this  moment 
— you're  safer  with  me,  poor  innocent,  than  with  Venetia 
Hobson." 

Her  voice  was  high  and  strained  as  she  called  these 
words  after  him,  for  he  was  marching  away  at  the  ut- 
most stride  of  his  long  legs. 

As  she  watched  him  disappear  down  the  terrace  steps, 
she  stamped  her  foot.  "I'm  a  fool — I'm  a  fool!"  she 
cried.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.  She  let  them  run  down 
her  cheek;  her  paint  was  of  the  kind  that  does  not  wash 
off. 

Shane  came  back  into  the  house  round  by  the  stables. 
The  stable  clock  had  not  yet  marked  the  half-hour  before 
noon.  He  hung  about  the  hall;  he  read,  without  under- 
standing, several  columns  of  yesterday's  paper;  ventured 
a  reconnaissance  in  drawing-room  and  library;  peered 

196 


"QUEER  SAYINGS" 

into  the  billiard-room — where  the  mere  sight  of  Blythe 
and  the  expert  in  things  Chinese  drove  him  forth  in  a 
hurry.  One  o'clock  struck.  She  had  not  kept  her  prom- 
ise :  both  her  husband  and  her  friend  had  been  right !  The 
luncheon  gong  boomed  through  the  house.  Lady  Thurso, 
looking  extraordinarily  pretty,  in  her  rapscallion  way, 
in  a  black  and  white  jumper  and  a  red  leather  hat,  ap- 
peared with  the  veteran  in  faithful  attendance,  twisting 
as  usual  his  trim  mustache. 

Lady  Kenneth,  black  as  thunder,  holding  a  yellow 
French  novel  between  finger  and  thumb,  descended  the 
great  staircase,  a  cigarette  sticking  between  revarnished 
red  lips.  She  flung  the  book  at  one  of  the  bulldogs  that 
was  snoring  loudly  before  the  wood  fire,  tossed  her  ciga- 
rette into  the  flame,  and  declared  with  a  loud,  unmirth- 
ful  laugh,  that  she  did  not  care  whether  Vee  came  down 
or  not,  she  must  and  would  have  her  lunch. 

"So  hungry,  Lady  Ken?"  The  man  with  the  Chinese 
face,  whom  for  no  reason,  Shane  hated  more  than  any 
other  being  in  a  house  full  of  people  that  he  hated,  stood 
rubbing  his  hands  and  smiling. 

"I've  a  right  to  be  hungry,  I've  had  a  walk.  I  haven't 
been  stewing  before  the  fire  like  you  two  pigs.  I  had  a 
lovely  walk  with  Lord  Kilmore."  She  gave  Shane  a  chal- 
lenging look. 

"I'm  always  greedy,  thank  the  Lord,  like  the  man  in 
Punch,"  said  Blythe. 

"I'm  only  greedy  for  chocolate  creams."  Dorrie  Thurso 
thrust  her  round  kitten  face  engagingly  forward,  and 
licked  her  lips  quite  unconsciously,  Colonel  Darcy  re- 
garding her  the  while  with  a  kind  of  tender  patronage; 

197 


NEW  WINE 

very  much,  indeed,  as  an  amiably  disposed  mastiff  would 
regard  a  kitten. 

"Will  any  one,"  screamed  Lady  Kenneth,  "do  me  the 
favor  to  bang  that  gong  again?  Here,  Mr.  Browne,  you. 
Isn't  playing  on  the  gong  a  Chinese  accomplishment?" 

"Stay  your  hand,  Joss  Sticks !"  Val  made  a  gesture 
towards  the  great  stairs.  "Here  comes  our  dearest  host- 
ess." 

Venetia  was  stepping  slowly  towards  them.  She 
looked  very  slender  and  distinguished  in  white  serge  gar- 
ments of  severe  cut.  The  rather  broad  brim  of  a  white- 
winged  hat  threw  a  shadow  over  her  eyes,  but  Shane  could 
see  that  they  were  fixed  on  him. 

"Good  morning  to  you  all,"  she  said.  Then  he  shud- 
dered to  see  her  lend  her  cheek  to  Lady  Kenneth's  kiss. 
She  gave  a  hand  to  Lady  Thurso  with  formal  greeting; 
to  the  other  men  a  smile.  And  then  her  gaze  was  upon 
him  again. 

"Did  you  wait?"  He  had  never  heard  a  voice  so  ex- 
pressive, so  controlled;  singing  or  speaking,  it  gave  the 
pure  music  of  her  emotion.  Now  it  was  low  and  full  of 
sweet  courtesy,  and  yet  imperious.  "Ah,  you  waited ! 
You  did  not  forget?  Neither  did  I.  I  could  not  come 
— but  postponed  is  not  lost.  The  gong  went,  didn't  it? 
Come,  Isobel." 

Lady  Kenneth  made  her  grimace. 

"There's  no  reason  because  you  don't  happen  to  care 
for  food,  Vee,  that  you  should  prevent  other  people  from 
enjoying  theirs.  I'm  sure  your  cutlets  are  ruined — sure 
to  be  cutlets — and  I've  lost  the  fine  edge  of  my  appetite." 


yi 

THE   HOUR  DIABOLIC 

"IT'S  too  bad  of  Tim!"  said  Lady  Kenneth.  She  had 
not  recovered  her  temper.  "He  knows  quite  well  I  only 
came  here  for  him.  What  am  I  going  to  do  with  myself 
now?"  She  rolled  her  bold,  discontented  eye  from  Val- 
entine Blythe  to  Joscelyn  Browne. 

"There  certainly  is,"  said  Blythe,  with  a  titter  and  a 
blush,  "a  remarkable  simplicity  about  the  social  arrange- 
ments in  this  house." 

They  were  all  three  standing  on  the  terrace.  On  the 
right,  in  the  direction  of  the  rhododendron  glade  and  the 
sea,  Lady  Thurso,  in  her  jumper,  could  still  be  seen, 
leisurely  strolling  away  with  her  elderly  Adonis.  To  the 
left,  in  the  direction  of  the  garden,  Lord  Kilmore  and  his 
hostess  were  receding,  the  white  slimness  seeming  to  drift 
by  his  side.  Now  and  again  these  two  halted,  to  go  on 
slowly:  it  was  evident  they  were  absorbed  in  each  other's 
conversation. 

"The  animals  went  in  two  by  two,"  hummed  Blythe. 

"Well,  if  you  don't  pair,  what's  to  be  done  in  a  place 
like  this  ?"  snapped  she. 

"I'm  agreeable,  I'm  sure,"  Valentine  protested,  with 
his  blushing  impertinence. 

Lady  Kenneth  laughed  disagreeably. 

"Mr.  Browne  did  bore  me  so,  yesterday,  with  his  Ping, 
or  was  it  Pong,  periods." 

199 


NEW  WINE 

"Ming,"  corrected  that  gentleman,  smiling  back  no 
whit  more  pleasantly.  "I'm  very  sorry,  Lady  Kenneth, 
to  have  inflicted  art  talk  upon  you.  Lady  Hobson  is  so 
remarkably  cultivated  and  appreciative,  she  has  encour- 
aged me  too  much." 

"She's  got  a  young  barbarian  to-day  to  play  with :  you 
and  your  pots  are  nowhere.  He's  off!  Quite  right,  old 
man,  we  don't  want  you  a  bit.  Do  we,  Lady  Ken?" 

"Not  a  bit."  She  looked  at  Yal  derisively.  "So  it's 
Hobson's  choice  for  me." 

"Hobson's  choice  for  me,"  repeated  Valentine,  cackling. 
He  suddenly  broke  off.  "I  say,  how  deadly  appropriate !" 

"What  do  you  mean?  Don't  be  a  fool.  Let's  sit  here 
and  smoke.  Roaming  palls,  in  my  old  age.  What  do 
you  mean  by  Hobson's  choice?  I  wasn't — worse  luck. 
It's  that  wretched  Irishman  that's  got  her  to-day." 

"Oh,  my  dear  lady.  Tout  ccla  est  relatif.  Dear  old 
Tim,  of  course,  he's  had  a  good  many.  I  was  speaking 
of  the  present." 

An  unwilling  satisfaction  crept  over  Lady  Kenneth's 
sullen  face.  She  once  more  perfunctorily  bade  him  not 
be  a  fool;  then,  striking  a  match,  she  turned  challeng- 
ing^- 

"I've  just  been  asking  myself  all  day  what  your  game 
is  with  that  young  barbarian,  as  you  call  him." 

Valentine  wriggled  and  colored;  his  green  eyes  glinted, 
their  most  insolent  mockery. 

"My  dear  Lady  Ken,  I  rather  think  I'm  playing  your 
little  game." 

"Now  what  do  you  mean?"  The  darkening  of  her 
whole  face  showed  that  she  understood  well  enough. 

200 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

"I  mean  that  I  love  helping  lame  dogs  over  stiles — 
I'm  the  most  good-natured  fellow  in  the  world." 

"That's  what  the  poor  lad  said  of  you,  only  this  morn- 

ing-" 

"Well,  it  does  give  me  a  vast  amount  of  pleasure  to  be 
good-natured  all  round.  He  wanted,  oh,  quite  madly, 
to  know  our  dear  Venetia,  fell  in  love  with  Cornelius 
James's  picture  of  her  in  the  Academy.  Awfully  clever 
thing — have  you  seen  it?  He  simply  raved.  I  knew 
poor  dear  Venetia  was  boring  herself  to  extinction  here, 
and  that  Tiny  Tim  and  she  are  more  fed  up  than  ever 
with  each  other.  Why  shouldn't  I  do  my  best  to  make 
everybody  happy,  all  round?  You  remember  the  sweet 
little  hymn — 'Little  deeds  of  kindness.'  Come,  you  can't 
say  it's  not  your  little  game!" 

Lady  Kenneth  was  sitting  forward,  her  clasped  hands 
between  her  knees. 

She  puffed  for  some  time  in  silence,  then  removed  the 
cigarette  and  turned  a  searching  look  upon  the  smooth, 
innocent  blond  face. 

"Granting  every  one's  little  game,"  she  said  slowly, 
"what  puzzles  me  is  why  you  should  be  playing  it." 

"Doesn't  my  good  nature  explain?" 

"Not  at  all — and  Val,  I'll  box  your  ears  if  you  look 
at  me  like  that !  Why  have  you  fastened  on  to  that  boy  ? 
What  kind  of  advantage  is  it  to  you  to  fling  him  into 
such  hands  as  Venetia's?  Do  explain,  I'm  really  curi- 
ous !  It's  not  as  if  you  were  badly  off.  (If  you  had  had 
to  work  for  your  living  it  would  have  been  the  making  of 
you.)  But  you're  not  up  a  tree,  are  you?  No,  I  thought 
not;  you're  a  careful  little  thing;  it's  not  sponging  then." 

"Sponging!" 

201 


NEW  WINE 

Valentine  Blythe  flamed  in  earnest. 

"Well,  I  have  just  said  it's  not.     What  is  it?" 

The  color  slowly  faded  from  Mr.  Blythe's  forehead.  He 
let  himself  sink  deeper  into  the  yielding  manila  of  the 
garden  chair.  Staring  up  at  the  chasing  clouds  and  hold- 
ing his  cigarette  between  his  first  and  second  finger,  he 
seemed  to  give  himself  up  to  reflection.  Presently,  with- 
out moving,  he  remarked: — 

"Has  it  never  dawned  upon  you,  dear  Lady  Ken,  that 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  artistic  pleasure?" 

"I  do  wish  you  would  speak  plain '" 

"That's  just  it."  He  sat,  his  rather  too  long  hair 
rumpled,  his  eyes  dancing.  He  stammered  a  little,  as  he 
always  did  when  excited.  "That's  just  it.  Plain.  I  was 
born  two-pence  colored.  Ah,  you  haven't  read  your  Ste- 
venson. Never  mind.  I'll  be  as  plain  as  nature  will  al- 
low." He  grinned.  "The  pleasure  an  artist  takes,  dear 
lady,  is  in  the  beauty  of  a  work  of  art.  You  understand 
that?  Quite  so.  If  he's  a  generous,  second-rate  sort  of 
fellow,  he  will  take  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  any  work 
of  art.  But  if  he  is  a  real  genius,  if  he's  possessed  with 
the  jealous  fury  of  his  own  capacity,  he  will  be  altogether 
absorbed  in  his  own  work.  And  the  sole  ecstasy  of  life 
for  him  will  be  the  fashioning  of  the  clay  in  the  perfect 
statue." 

"I'm  not  quite  so  stupid  as  you  think.  But  I  don't 
see  the  application." 

"Don't  you?  I  am  the  genius  in  this  case.  My  young 
barbarian  is  the  clay." 

"Not  at  all !"  The  retort  came  swift.  "You've  handed 
your  clay  over  to  Venetia." 

"Not  at  all,"  he  mocked  back;  "the  artist  uses  instru- 

202 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

merits.  Dear  Venetia  is  one  of  mine — the  most  impor- 
tant." 

"Valentine  Blythe !"  Lady  Kenneth  sat  up.  "Give  me 
a  straight  answer  for  once  in  your  life!  What's  at  the 
bottom  of  it?  For  what  conceivable  reason  can  it  give 
you  pleasure  to  throw  an  innocent  boy " 

She  stopped.  An  indescribable  change  had  come  over 
her  companion's  face — a  something  evil  that  squinted  in 
the  eyes  and  jeered  in  the  mouth;  a  sudden  blighting  of 
all  the  smooth  fairness  as  if  under  a  withering  wind. 

"Innocent !"  he  exclaimed.     "Pah !" 

Lady  Kenneth  rose. 

"Val  Blythe,"  she  declared,  "you're  a  devil."  And  as 
she  walked  away,  she  muttered  to  herself,  "God  knows  I 
ought  to  be  a  judge." 

The  garden  at  Creewater  was  after  the  Scotch  fashion, 
set  away  from  the  house,  enclosed  by  high  walls.  It  was 
a  very  fair  place,  this  Whit  Saturday  on  the  lip  of  June. 
For  the  apple-trees  in  the  long  espaliers  were  still  a  drift 
of  blossom,  and  the  May-flowering  tulips  and  all  the  other 
late  spring  flowers  were  at  their  high  diapason  of  beauty. 

Shane,  in  all  his  life,  had  never  seen  such  lavish  loveli- 
ness. He  was  able,  now,  to  taste  the  incense  of  the  nar- 
cissus. The  driven  clouds  sent  shadows  racing  up  the 
garden  slope,  and  color  leapt  behind  each  as  it  passed. 
A  blackbird  was  singing  somewhere.  He  could  not  speak ; 
Venetia  smiled  as  she  contemplated  him. 

"I  love  my  garden.  I  only  bring  friends  here.  That 
is  why  I  locked  the  gate  behind  us  just  now." 

She  shook  the  key.  Delicate  laughter  ran  over  her  face, 
as  the  sunshine  over  the  garden,  chasing  the  sadness. 

203 


NEW  WINE 

"I'm  fine  and  glad  to  hear  you  say  I'm  a  friend,"  said  he. 

It  was  an  effort  to  him  to  speak  at  all  to  this  won- 
derful creature,  his  own  voice  sounded  too  rough;  he  felt 
his  untutored  tongue  hopelessly  blundering.  An  odd,  in- 
articulate conviction  was  on  him  that  she  would  under- 
stand him  best  of  all  without  speech.  She,  however,  took 
his  remark  with  amity. 

"But  I  kept  my  friend  waiting.     That  was  unkind." 

"Ah,  it  was  not !" 

"No,  it  was  not  unkindness.  It  was  just "  she 

paused  so  long  that  he  had  to  urge : — 

"Wouldn't  you  be  telling  me?" 

**My  friend — I  think  it  was,  on  the  contrary,  kind- 
ness." 

He  did  not  understand ;  his  troubled  face  showed  that. 
After  a  pause,  with  the  faintest  accent  of  vexation,  she 
went  on: — 

"Why  should  I  inflict  my  sadness  on  any  one,  above  all, 
on  my  friends?" 

He  .gave  her  a  swift,  questioning  glance :  that  was  not 
what  she  had  meant.  He  wondered. 

"But  why  should  there  be  sadness  to-day?"  she  cried, 
with  an  assumption  of  gayety  that  struck  his  quick  sensi- 
bility as  infinitely  more  sorrowful  than  her  melancholy. 
"After  all,  nothing  can  rob  us  of  these  God-given  things 
— the  flowers,  the  birds,  the  sunshine,  the  quiet  hour  apart 
from  the  turmoil  of  an  empty  world." 

"The  Hour  Exquisite." 

She  regarded  him  with  curious  searching  from  under 
lowered  lids.  The  ghost  of  a  smile  flickered  on  her  face, 
and  was  gone. 

"Let  us  sit  on  that  bench,  it  is  quite  warm,  and  we 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

shall  smell  the  honeysuckle.  It  is  an  exquisite  hour," 
she  went  on,  drawing  off  her  loose  wash-leather  glove  and 
clasping  her  bare  hands  on  her  lap.  They  were  not  be- 
ringed,  these  slender  hands,  save  for  the  single  circlet 
which  looked  too  heavy  for  such  frailty.  Staring  down 
at  them,  Shane  remembered  an  odd  phrase  of  Val  Blythe's 
that  if  a  soul  had  hands  they  would  be  like  Venetia's. — 
Empty  fellow  as  he  was,  he  had  a  gift  of  clothing  the 
thought  as  it  flew  with  a  filmy  garment.  The  hands  of 
a  soul — and  on  one  of  them  the  fetter!  He  knew  now 
what  a  fetter,  and  why  she  was  sad. 

"When  you  go  back  to  your  room,"  said  Lady  Hobson 
— it  was  not  in  her  to  be  abrupt,  yet  she  was  forever 
startling  him — "you  will  find  the  monsters  gone." 

"The  monsters  from  the  chimney  corner?" 

"You  did  not  like  them.  I  have  ordered  them  to  be 
taken  away  and  put  outside  the  door  of  my  sitting- 
room." 

"What  matter  if  I  liked  them  or  not,  I  like  worse  to 
think  of  them  near  you.  There  ought  not  to  be  any 
ugliness  where  you  are." 

"Ah,  but  it  cannot  be  helped!  I  must  make  up  my 
mind  to  ugly  things.  That's  why  I  have  had  them  put 
there — as  a  reminder." 

He  recalled  how  they  had  seemed  to  him  like  Sir  Timo- 
thy, and  a  strangling  sense  of  impotence  and  wrath  pre- 
vented speech.  Then,  very  slowly,  she  turned  her  head 
and  shifted  her  gaze  till  it  was  fixed  full  upon  him;  the 
eyes  of  the  portrait;  the  eyes  that  pleaded,  that  called 
such  unutterable  things  to  his  manhood,  out  of  the  un- 
fathomable miseries  of  her  woman's  soul.  He  cried: 

"In  the  name  of  God,  can  nothing  be  done?" 

205 


NEW  WINE 

Like  last  night,  she  put  her  finger  to  her  lip  and  whis- 
pered. 

"Hush !  'The  heart  knoweth  its  own  bitterness,'  "  she 
sighed  1  "How  wonderful  those  words  are ! — Ah,  there's  a 
blue  butterfly!  You  have  not  seen  my  little  sitting- 
room?" 

His  gaze,  which  had  followed  the  gesture  of  her  hand, 
came  back  to  her  face.  Shane's  smile  had  always  a  pe- 
culiar radiance;  but  now,  as  he  smiled  on  her,  there  was 
an  extraordinary  tenderness  on  his  usually  hard  young 
face. 

"I'm  thinking,"  he  said,  "it's  like  the  butterfly  you  are 
yourself — flitting  from  one  thing  to  the  other!  How  am 
I  to  keep  up  with  you  at  all?" 

"Butterfly — the  emblem  of  the  soul!"  she  smiled  back. 
"But  I  was  saying,  you  have  not  been  to  my  little  sit- 
ting-room. When  they're  all  at  church  to-morrow — Tim 
is  a  regular  church-goer,"  her  lips  twisted  ironically,  "the 
rest  will  follow  suit,  you  and  I  can  be  pagans ;  and  if  you 
come  to  my  own  sanctum,  I  will  sing  to  you.  I  couldn't 
really  sing  last  night,  the  drawing-room  is  too  big  for  any 
voice,  and  it  was  full  of — well,  I  keep  my  room,  like  my 
garden,  for  my  friends." 

"To-morrow's  Whit-Sunday!"  Astonishment  was  in 
Shane's  wide-open  gaze,  and  something  like  fear  in  his 
voice. 

"What  of  it — are  you,  too,  such  a  church-goer?"  Vene- 
tia  drew  into  herself,  as  the  flower  that  closes  at  eve- 
ning. 

"Whit-Sunday,  or  any  Sunday,  it's  no  matter.  I've 
got  to  go  to  Mass." 

"To  Mass !"     Her  tone  was  bleak  and  thin. 

206 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

"Didn't  you  know?"  he  exclaimed,  frowning.  A  thun- 
der-cloud gathered  upon  him.  "It's  the  Catholic  I  am." 
Enmities  centuries-old,  unforgotten  persecutions,  inher- 
ited battle-ardors,  flashed  from  his  whole  being  as  in 
fires.  "Maybe,"  he  went  on,  "you'd  not  have  been  hav- 
ing me  up  here,  if  you'd  known?" 

"Oh,  it's  not  that !"     She  wrung  her  hands.     "I  never 

thought "      She  was  pale,  trembling.     Here  was  no 

cultivated  emotion  but  genuine  distress.  In  a  moment, 
however,  the  composure,  the  aloofness  which  formed,  as 
it  were,  her  own  special  atmosphere,  shut  her  away  from 
him.  That  inner  self,  of  which  he  had  had  a  startling 
glimpse,  was  thrust  back  into  its  prison,  only  to  look  out 
at  him  as  before,  through  barred  windows. 

"I  ought  to  have  known,  my  friend,"  she  said,  with 
a  sweetness  which  might  have  rung  false  enough  to  any 
ears  less  infatuated.  "From  the  moment  you  came  I 
knew,  I  felt  the  difference.  Oh,  the  blessed  difference ! 
There  is  nothing  in  the  world  better  than  a  good  Cath- 
olic. I  am  glad  you  are  one  of  them." 

But  even  while  she  spoke  thus,  in  a  tone  even  more 
honeyed  than  the  words,  there  was  something  in  her  eyes 
which  he  miserably  felt  thrust  him  from  her.  Two 
thoughts,  both  anguishing,  rushed  against  each  other  in 
his  brain.  "It's  the  old  story,  after  all;  the  English 
Protestant,  and  the  Irish  Catholic!"  This  was  the  first 
thought,  a  sore  and  angry  one.  The  second  was  a  leap- 
ing horror.  "It's  no  religion  at  all  she  has,  the  crea- 
ture!" 

"How  cold  it  has  turned,"  said  Lady  Hobson.  "That's 
the  worst  of  this  kind  of  breezy  day.  One  can't  really 
sit  out  in  any  comfort." 

207 


NEW  WINE 

She  got  up.  A  passing  cloud  had  drifted  between  their 
world  and  the  sun ;  the  whole  face  of  the  garden  was 
changed.  Under  the  shadow  of  her  winged  hat  she  had, 
to  his  excited  fancy,  the  air  of  one  ready  to  fly  from  him 
in  a  wild  dismay. 

He  had  thought  this  another  I'Heure  Exquise,  and  it 
was  all  broken  up ;  blurred,  darkened  in  a  moment,  as 
was  the  sky  over  their  heads.  He  followed  her  in  silence 
to  the  gate.  As  she  pulled  the  key  out  of  the  lock,  she 
said,  without  looking  at  him: — 

"You  would  like  to  go  to  the  first  Mass.  I  will  order 
my  own  car  for  you  at  half-past  seven." 

Question  sprang  to  his  lips;  some  instinct  refused  it 
utterance.  First  Mass — how  did  she  have  it  all  so  pat? 
She  was  the  perfect  hostess,  Val  Blythe's  boast  had  not 
been  vain.  Was  this  gracious  forethought  for  a  guest 
only  an  instance  of  her  hospitality? 

"I'm  afraid  it  will  be  a  power  of  trouble.  I'd  think 
nothing  of  walking  it." 

"Ten  miles?"     She  gave  him  a  fugitive  smile. 

"That  same." 

"And  get  lost — no,  no,  what  nonsense !  If  you  want  to 
go  you  must  have  the  car." 

"I'm  very  thankful  to  you.  I  would  have  thought 
nothing  of  the  walk,  though.  Isn't  the  Irish  mile  half 
as  long  again  as  the  English?  And  you  should  see  the 
way  the  poor  people  in  Clare  come  over  the  mountains, 
barefoot  every  step  of  the  way,  until  they  get  in  sight  of 
the  chapel,  when  they'll  draw  on  their  boots." 

"How  touching!"  said  Venetia. 

Shane  closed  his  lips  abruptly.  And  after  that  it  was 
in  silence  that  they  went  back  to  the  terrace.  A  some- 

208 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

thing  intangible  had  come  between  them,  and  snapped,  for 
the  moment,  the  link  that  had  seemed  so  subtly  strong. 

On  the  terrace  they  found  Val  Blythe,  who  lifted  his 
his  eyebrows  as  he  stood  up. 

"So  soon  back?" 

"It  was  cold  in  the  garden."  Lady  Hobson  gave  a 
slight  shiver. 

"Was  it?"  Val  glanced  from  one  to  the  other,  and 
laughed. 

Shane  could  not  have  said  why,  but  the  laugh  stung 
him.  He  glowered  at  Val,  and  this  gentleman  edged  away 
with  a  flapping  of  hands  and  a  cabriole  pantomimic  of 
alarm. 

"Do  try  not  to  be  silly !"  said  Venetia. 

Even  a  dove  will  peck. 

That  night  Venetia  had  no  song  for  any  one.  Shane 
had  no  moment  apart  with  her.  She  talked,  indeed,  most 
of  the  time  to  Mr.  Joscelyn  Browne.  They  sat  apart, 
and  Shane  could  not  hear  what  their  low-pitched  voices 
were  saying,  but  she  seemed  interested,  that  was  all. 
Only  from  Mr.  Browne's  gestures,  indicating  invisible 
curves,  measuring  invisible  proportions,  now  and  again 
even  outlining  invisible  flowers  with  one  finger,  he  guessed 
that  the  discussion  was  restricted  to  China. 

For  the  rest  it  was  a  very  uproarious  night.  Lady 
Thurso  was  induced  to  give  a  selection  of  her  popular 
songs  and  dances  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  gramo- 
phone. 

Shane,  in  his  wildest  nightmare,  had  never  dreamed  of 
such  sounds  or  sights.  There  was  no  way  of  escape  for 
him,  as  on  the  previous  evening,  though,  indeed,  "if  she 

209 


NEW  WINE 

can  stand  it,"  he  said  to  himself  more  than  once,  gazing 
unhappily  at  Venetia,  "it  would  be  strange  if  I  couldn't." 
How  could  she  stand  it?  Yet  what  could  she  do?  "God 
help  her!"  His  eyes  shifted  from  her  half-averted  face 
to  Sir  Timothy's  great  grin.  Good  Lord,  what  a  con- 
junction! 

Sir  Timothy  had  returned,  very  patchy  as  to  com- 
plexion and  temper,  from  a  fruitless  day  on  his  hill  lake ; 
and  Lady  Kenneth's  unsparing  gibes  had  not  tended  to 
improve  matters.  But  the  mollifying  effect  of  dinner, 
and  Lady  Thurso's  kicks  and  squeals,  her  audacious  eye, 
her  apt  gesture,  had  restored  him  to  good-humor. 

"  Ton  my  word,"  he  cried,  removing  his  big  cigar  at 
the  end  of  a  particularly  lively  turn,  "this  is  what  I  call 
perfection!  To  sit  here  in  your  own  house,  your  own 
arm-chair  with  your  own  peg  beside  you,  and  have  the 
best  star  of  the  Frivolity  shining — eh — what?  That's 
good,  ain't  it?  The  best  star  shining  just  for  yourself, 
you  know!  I  say,  Lady  Thurso,  give  us  that  again! 
Eh,  what,  Darcy?  Encore!  Don't  know  when  I've  en- 
joyed anything  so  much.  This  is  what  I  call  having  a 
jolly  hour.  Turn  it  on  again,  Ely  the,  there's  a  good 
chap." 

The  gramophone  orchestra  started  its  frantic  lilt  once 
more. 

Shane  flung  a  despairing  look  at  Venetia.  Would  she 
not  look  back  at  him,  were  it  even  with  the  gaze  of  suf- 
fering unbearable?  Anything  rather  than  to  remain  shut 
out  from  the  night  of  her  tragedy  as  well  as  from  the 
moonlike  radiance  of  her  amenity.  But,  wrapped  in 
white  gossamer  draperies,  she  still  sat,  her  countenance 

210 


THE  HOUR  DIABOLIC 

turned  upon  Joscelyn  Browne.  Once  or  twice  she  cast  a 
vague,  forced  smile  upon  the  outrageous  circle.  For  him 
there  was  nothing. 

The   gramophone  brayed  on.     It  was  for  Shane  the 
hour  diabolical. 


VII 


THE   WHITE    SHRINE 

"Do  you  really  like  it?" 

"I  like  it  fine.     It's "   Shane  hesitated,  "it's  like 

walking  into  a  hawthorne  tree  in  the  Maytime." 

"I  had  a  fancy,"  said  Lady  Hobson,  "for  white  this 
year.  Last  year  I  had  all  the  colors  of  old  enamels. 
But  I  got  to  hate  that." 

Thus  spoke  the  wife  of  the  millionaire.  Shane  was  too 
ignorant,  too  much  obsessed  by  his  own  thoughts,  more- 
over, either  to  notice  the  fantastic  costliness  of  everything 
about  him,  or  to  reflect  upon  the  caprice  revealed  by  these 
words.  The  purity  of  the  white  room — all  tones  of  white 
from  the  gray-whites  of  plaster  work  ceiling  and  frieze, 
the  ivory  of  paneled  walls,  the  pearl  of  shimmering  sat- 
ins, to  the  amber  whites  of  the  bearskins  on  the  enameled 
floor — struck  him  with  a  kind  of  awe.  He  felt  it, 
poignantly,  to  be  the  fitting  refuge  for  his  pure  lady, 
prisoner,  through  no  fault  of  hers,  in  some  palace  of  hell. 
At  the  same  time,  his  heart  was  torn  upon  the  thought 
that,  on  a  Whitsunday  morning,  here  she  sat,  while  even 
those  others  had  gone  to  try  and  sanctify  it,  albeit  after 
their  blind  heretic  fashion.  Was  there  never  a  prayer  on 
her  lips,  and  she  so  unhappy,  the  creature?  And  was  not 
that  the  worst  sorrow  of  all? 

"He  brought  you  to  the  church  all  right?" 

Shane  started  slightly. 

212 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

"Ay,  he  brought  me  to  the  chapel.  Thanking  you 
kindly." 

"It  must  have  been,"  said  Venetia  in  a  slow  voice, 
"rather  lovely  going  off  in  the  morning  to  kneel  in  that 
simple  place." 

He  did  not  reply.  He  had  brought  his  soul  to  the  al- 
tar of  his  faith  as  the  seaman  takes  his  craft  into  the 
harbor  from  the  storm.  Now  he  was  out  on  the  tossing 
waters  again.  He  thought  back  on  that  place  of  secur- 
ity and  peace  always  at  hand  for  him,  no  matter  how  far 
he  seemed  to  stray;  and  the  vials  of  pity  broke  within 
him,  pity  welled  uncontrollably  to  his  lips. 

"How  can  you  get  on  at  all,  if  you  never  pray?" 

She  stared  at  him  a  moment,  lips  parted,  her  eyes — 
yes,  he  was  sure  of  it  now — terrified.  Then  she  moved 
that  hunted  gaze  away  from  him,  to  look  at  something 
behind  him ;  it  remained  fixed,  its  terror  deepening.  Shane 
involuntarily  turned  to  look,  too.  A  small  silver  crucifix 
mounted  on  crystal  hung  on  the  panel. 

"Why  should  you  say  I  do  not  pray?"  Her  voice 
strove  for  calmness,  but  failed.  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands,  and  broke  into  wild  weeping.  He  sat  help- 
less, paralyzed;  then  he  asked  her,  in  God's  name  what 
ailed  her ;  then  he  told  her  she  was  tearing  his  heart  out ; 
then  at  last  he  fell  on  his  knees  beside  her  and  laid  his 
cold,  trembling  touch  upon  her  drenched  fingers.  She 
caught  at  him,  and  for  one  minute,  agony  and  bliss  to 
him,  they  clasped  hands,  and  he  saw  her  piteous  face  quiv- 
ering, beaten  by  her  tears  as  the  flower  by  the  rain — 
never  in  his  eyes  more  lovely.  He  could  find  no  words  for 
his  grief,  nor  for  his  love!  In  a  passion  of  compassion 

213 


NEW  WINE 

he  bent  his  head  and  kissed,  one  after  the  other,  the  hands 
he  held. 

At  that  she  drew  them  from  him,  pushed  her  chair  back, 
and  sprang  to  her  feet.  Staring  down  at  him  as  he  knelt, 
she  asked,  in  a  whisper,  if  he  guessed — 

"Guessed?"  Still  kneeling,  he  lifted  his  blue  eyes,  be- 
wildered, candid,  ardent. 

"Ah!"  she  cried  sharply,  "you're  like  a  knight,  kneel- 
ing there !  You're  not  of  this  age,  while  I —  She 
did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  moving  swiftly,  took  the 
crucifix  from  the  wall.  "I  have  no  right  to  keep  it!  It 
was  given  to  my  mother  by  an  old  Italian  cardinal.  She 
gave  it  to  me  when  I  made  my  first  communion ' 

Shane  struck  his  hands  together  with  the  wild  gesture 
of  the  peasant  of  the  west. 

"God  be  good  to  me,  it's  the  Catholic  you  are  your- 
self!" The  flash  of  joy  on  his  face  was  succeeded  by  an 
overwhelming  dismay.  He  got  up,  stepped  back,  and  ex- 
claimed, contemplating  her  as  if  she  had  suddenly  become 
altogether  strange:  "But  then,  it's  the  bad  Catholic  you 
are!" 

"That's  your  conclusion?"  She  was  not  crying  now; 
her  self-control  had  returned.  She  stood,  delicately  hold- 
ing the  wonderful  crucifix  and  glancing  from  it  to  him 
and  back  again,  with  just  the  faintest  quiver  as  of  a  smile 
at  the  corner  of  her  lips. 

"What  would  any  one  be  thinking,  and  you  not  going 
to  Mass?" 

"Oh,  that!"  Her  lip  lifted;  it  was  a  smile,  but  the 
sight  of  it  gave  him  an  inward  shudder.  "Perhaps  that's 
the  best  of  me.  Here,"  she  said  suddenly,  "I  will  give 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

you  the  crucifix;  it  was  the  last  thing  left  of  it  all.  I 
ought  not  to  keep  it.  Take  it,  I  give  it  to  you." 

She  advanced  two  or  three  steps,  holding  it  out  to  him ; 
but  he  went  back  before  her. 

"Don't  tell  me" — there  was  horror  in  his  voice,  and  in 
his  refusing  hands — "that  you  are  an  apostate !" 

"Only  an  outcast — I  cast  myself  out,  when  I  married 
— my  husband !" 

If  she  had  said  "my  jailer,  my  tormentor,  the  being 
I  abhor  most  upon  earth,"  she  could  not  have  expressed 
contemptuous  loathing  more  utterly  than  by  the  empha- 
sis she  laid  on  the  two  words. 

"You  were  not  married  in  the  Catholic  Church,  I  take 
it,"  said  Shane. 

.His  chest  heaved  with  a  long  breath.  The  question  of 
the  ne  temer  decree  is  a  burning  one  in  all  Catholic  com- 
munities ;  even  so  remote  a  spot  as  Clenane  had  had  its 
grapple  with  it.  She  gave  him  a  sudden  curious,  scru- 
tinizing look. 

"Is  it  possible  you  don't  know  anything  about  me? — • 
you,  Val  Blythe's  friend !" 

Here  was  almost  the  same  phrase  that  Lady  Kenneth 
had  used  and  he  winced  at  the  coincidence.  The  intense 
scrutiny  of  her  eyes  relaxed;  she  closed  her  lids  and 
sighed.  Then,  with  a  gesture  which  to  him  seemed  very 
pathetic,  she  lifted  the  crucifix  to  her  lips. 

"It  is  not  as  the  emblem  of  my  salvation  that  I  dare 
kiss  it,  but  for  the  memory  of  my  mother.  She  was  a 
saint.  Ah,  if  my  mother  had  lived !" 

This  time  the  fresh  parallel  did  not  strike  him.  "If 
my  little  boy  had  lived !"  had  said  Lady  Kenneth — but 

215 


NEW  WINE 

the  word  mother  had  found  a  chord  which  vibrated  in  his 
already  ringing  heart. 

"My  own  mother,"  he  exclaimed,  "was  lost  on  me,  and 
I  only  a  child!" 

"Oh,  my  life  would  have  been  so  different,"  went  on 
Venetia,  as  if  she  had  not  heard,  "had  my  sweet  mother 
lived."  Sinking  into  a  chair  she  laid  the  crucifix  on  a 
table  beside  her.  "Sit  down,  Lord  Kilmore."  She  had 
recovered  her  astonishing  power  over  herself.  Her  voice 
had  its  usual  sweetness ;  her  countenance  save  for  a  slight 
blurring  of  the  clear  features,  showed  no  trace  of  discom- 
fiture. "I  do  not  know  how  there  has  come  to  be  such 
strange  confidence  between  us ;  but,  since  it  is  so,  let  it 
be  complete.  You  used  a  cruel  word  to  me  just  now — 
apostate!  No,  I  am  not  an  apostate.  But  it  is  true 
that  I  married  Sir  Timothy  against  the  law  of  the  Church 
— that  new  law  which  will  not  recognize  any  marriage  ex- 
cept under  pledges  which  some  men,  faithful  to  their  own 
creed,  will  not  give.  I  see  in  your  eyes  what  you  think: 
why  was  I  unfaithful  to  mine?  Why?  ah,  why?"  Tears 
again  rose  into  her  voice,  tears  which  would  not  be  shed. 
She  turned  her  slow  gaze,  with  its  unuttered  anguish,  upon 
him.  "I  was  very  unhappy,  very — friendless,  I  may  say ; 
left,  in  a  way,  desolate.  In  poverty,  too !  I  had  no  good 
friend  to  help  me,  no  strong  hand  to  cling  to.  And  Timo- 
thy— well,  he  seemed  different  then.  He  was  different. 
He  did  love  me,  I  think.  I  believed  in  him,  in  his  prom- 
ises. I  thought  I  could  trust  him.  Afterwards — when 
I  found  out — it  was  too  late." 

"Why  should  it  be  too  late?" 

Shane,  sitting  on  a  low  chair,  his  hands  clasped  loosely 
between  his  knees,  had  not  moved  his  ardent,  troubled 

216 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

gaze  from  her  face  since  the  beginning  of  her  elliptic  talk. 
She  gave  a  little  shrug. 

"After  seven  years'  bondage!" 

"What  matter?" 

The  agonized  pleading  in  her  eyes  became  softened.  A 
smile  hovered.  Her  whole  being  seemed  to  waver  ex- 
quisitely between  laughter  and  tears. 

"Dear  friend — I  ought  to  say,  dear  child — how  little 
you  know  the  world!" 

"I  know  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong." 

"Ah,  no,  it  is  impossible!  No  one  can  retrace  life's 
steps."  Gravity  fell  upon  her  like  a  black  mantle,  extin- 
guishing the  flicker  of  light.  "There  is  no  turning  back, 
I  must  go  on.  I  have  cut  the  old  ties,  the  new  ones  are 
all  I  have.  There  is  not  a  door  that  would  open  to  me. 
There  is  not  a  single  human  being  in  the  world  who  would 
stretch  out  a  hand " 

"There  is." 

He  rose  and  stood  towering  over  her.  She  glanced  up 
and  shrank  from  the  flame  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"You  can  come  to  me,"  said  Shane.  His  voice  was  per- 
fectly steady,  but  passion  spoke  in  it,  as  when  some  new 
stop  in  the  organ  adds  a  strange  quality  to  the  peal.  "In 
the  eyes  of  God  you  are  a  free  woman,  you  are  bound  by 
no  ties."  His  Irish  delicacy  would  not  phrase  to  her  ears 
the  thoughts  uppermost  in  his  mind.  "You  are  not  mar- 
ried at  all — you  are  living  in-  sin!" 

"Glory  be  to  God !"  cried  Shane,  flinging  his  arms  wide, 
"you're  free.  You  can  come  to  me  and  back  to  your 
faith  at  one  step.  You  can  leave  the  past  behind  alto- 
gether. Isn't  it  what  I've  been  sent  here  for,  to  take  you 
away  from  misery — and  black  misery,  too?  Isn't  that 

217 


NEW  WINE 

what  your  eyes  were  asking  me  out  of  the  picture? 
Weren't  you  crying  for  help?  Maybe  you  did  not  know 
it  yourself,  but  you  were.  Well,  here  I  am.  I  can  give 
you  my  name.  I  can  give  you  a  home.  I'll  give  you  all 
the  love  of  my  heart.  I'll  give  you  better  than  that.  I'll 
give  you  back  the  peace  of  God." 

Those  outstretched  arms  would  have  been  folded  about 
her,  but  she  slipped  from  him  like  a  blown  mist. 

"No,  no — no,  you  don't  know  what  you're  asking!  It 
is  madness — it  is  impossible !"  She  was  shaken  with  a 
laugh,  so  faint,  so  mirthless,  that  she  might  have  been  a 
thing  of  no  substance,  but  altogether  spirit — and  that 
lost.  "Oh,  you  don't  know,"  she  repeated,  waving  fran- 
tic hands  of  repulsion,  though  he  stood  still,  rooted. 
"You  don't  know  what  you're  asking.  Were  it  possible 
for  me,  it  would  be,  oh,  so  impossible  for  you !  How 
could  I,  how  could  I  ruin  your  young  life  ?" 

Shane,  who  had  been  swift  of  thought  and  tongue  in  his 
old  existence,  had  become  a  man  of  few  words  in  this  new 
sphere  of  his ;  partly  because,  in  his  soul,  he  was  among 
strangers ;  partly  because  of  the  sensitive  pride  which 
kept  him  conscious  of  his  own  disadvantages  in  the  so- 
cial give  and  take.  With  her,  with  Venetia,  he  was,  even 
on  this  wave  of  high  feeling,  more  cautious  of  speech,  more 
fearful  of  solecism  than  with  any  one  else.  He  was  still 
twisting  upon  his  untaught  tongue  the  ardors  that  sought 
expression,  when  from  the  far  distance  came  the  note  of 
a  motor  horn. 

"They're  coming  back!"  she  cried,  took  two  or  three 
steps  towards  the  door,  then  halted.  "No,  don't  stop  me ! 
Don't  speak  a  word !  This  must  never  be  spoken  again 
between  us.  It  is  the  only  thing — it  is  the  best.  Oh, 

218 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

if  you  knew,  this  is  the  best  tiling  I've  ever  done  in  my 
life !  I  can  hang  that  crucifix  on  the  wall  again  and  look 
at  it,  and  feel,  and  feel " 

Her  voice  gave  on  a  sob.  The  next  instant  she  had 
closed  the  door  between  them  with  a  movement  that  was 
almost  violent. 

The  motor-horn  hooted  again,  under  the  window — to 
Shane's  fancy  it  sounded  like  the  cry  of  a  triumphant 
devil.  When  he  came  out  of  the  room,  the  great  corridor 
was  empty.  From  the  hall  below  Lady  Kenneth's  strident 
voice  was  already  eddying  up.  On  entering  that  room, 
he  had  not  noticed  the  two  bronze  monsters  posted  one 
on  each  side  of  the  door.  .He  saw  them  now  and,  with  a 
shudder,  was  again  struck  by  the  resemblance  to  Sir 
Timothy  in  the  grotesque  half-human  countenances  turned 
sideways  on  bull  necks  to  grin  upwards.  They  were  to 
be  a  reminder  to  her,  she  had  said.  Shane  set  his  teeth: 
what  though  all  the  powers  of  evil  were  against  him,  he 
would  fight  them ! 

"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  fellow?'*  murmured  Valentine 
to  Mr.  Joscelyn  Browne,  indicating  Shane  with  a  slight 
jerk  of  his  head.  "He'll  sit  like  that,  apparently  think- 
ing, for  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  never  move.  What  do  you 
imagine  goes  on  inside  that  black  head?  I've  known  him 
nearly  a  year;  and  I  vow  I  have  not  the  faintest  no>- 
tion." 

Mr.  Browne  gave  a  cold  stare  across  the  room.  Shane 
was  sitting  by  the  hearth  of  the  smoking-room,  where 
smoldering  logs  crumbled  gray  in  the  streaming  sunshine. 
A  short  pipe  was  between  his  lips  and  not  a  muscle  of  his 

219 


NEW  WINE 

face  moved,  save  when,  at  long  intervals,  he  drew  sufficient 
breath  to  keep  the  tobacco  alive. 

"He  is  probably  just  sitting  and  hating  us  all,  after  his 
Irish  fashion,"  said  Joscelyn  Browne. 

He  had  from  the  first  disliked  Mr.  Blythe's  barbarian: 
there  was  no  more  room  for  such  pure,  unspoilt  virility 
in  his  peculiar  scheme  of  culture  than  there  would  have 
been  place  among  his  fantastic  Chinese  treasures  for  a 
Greek  statue. 

"Dear  Joss  Sticks,"  burbled  Mr.  Blythe,  "I  think  you're 
wrong.  What's  the  matter  with  my  cub  is  that  he  is  lov- 
ing somebody  too  much." 

The  curio  collector  grinned;  and  it  did  not  add  to 
the  attractiveness  of  his  countenance. 

"I  can't  help  wondering,  my  good  Blythe,  what  on 
earth  you  find  in  this  cub  of  yours?  Your  own  word, 
and  very  apt." 

"I'm  licking  him  into  shape,"  Mr.  Blythe  smiled  back. 
"Getting  on  very  nicely,  thank  you.  You  must  admit 
I've  turned  him  out  well.  Did  you  ever  see  a  more  per- 
fect suit  for  a  Whitsunday  morning  in  the  country  ?  And, 
Lord,  what  a  fit — and  what  a  figure  to  fit !" 

"Granted  the  clothes  and  the  figure,  you  haven't  found 
it  so  easy  to  mold  the  inner  savage,  it  would  seem.  And 
really,  why  should  you  inflict  your  peasant-boy  on  such  a 
special  creature  as  our  hostess — a  soul  rich  from  the  past, 
if  ever  there  was  one,  a  soul  that,  among  other  Karmas, 
has  certainly  tasted  love  and  power  and  art  and  beauty 
in  medieval  Florence?  What  can  she  have  in  common 
with  this  raw  stuff  straight  from  the  potato  field?" 

"Dear  old  Joss-Sticks!  Church  has  disagreed  with 
you.  You're  soured.  ...  It  is  a  pity  that  dear  Venetia 

220 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

could  not  send  you  tootling  off  to  a  Buddhist  temple  in 
the  vicinity,  as  she  did  my  young  papist  there  to  his 
Mass.  And,  by  the  way — his  service  does  not  appear  to 
have  agreed  with  him  so  very  well  either,  judging  by  that 
darkling  brow.  I  must  inquire  into  this." 

Mr.  Blythe  got  up,  cast  his  half-smoked  cigarette  into 
the  ash  tray  as  he  passed,  and  strolled  up  to  the  hearth. 

"  'Why  so  pale,  gentle  Shepherd,  why  so  pale?'  In 
other  words,  why  so  pensive,  dear  Shane?  It  was  rather 
sad,  I  take  it — going  off  to  pray  by  your  lonesome,  all  in 
the  cold  gray  dawn."  He  drew  a  light  chair  near  his 
friend  as  he  spoke,  and  sat  down  astride  to  grin  at  him 
across  its  back.  "Or  was  it  the  service  in  the  little  white 
shrine  upstairs  that  produced  your  lordship's  air  of  com- 
punction? Take  care,  dear  boy,  there  may  be  danger  to 
the  uninitiated  in  its  enchanting  ritual." 

Shane,  who  had  been  content  to  glower  over  his  pipe 
in  reply  to  the  first  remark,  now  got  up,  very  slowly  but 
with  no  uncertain  threat  in  his  whole  air. 

"It  will  be  well  for  you  to  take  care." 

He  dropped  the  words  and  strolled  away.  Blythe 
wilted  beneath  the  menace.  Though  he  could  not  re- 
frain from  taunting  Shane,  he  had,  nevertheless,  a  pro- 
found respect  for  his  swift  angers.  He  had  rarely  come 
so  near  to  the  lightning  flash. 

"Cub  growling?"  mocked  the  Chinaman  from  his  cor- 
ner. 

"Very  nearly  bit,"  admitted  Valentine,  with  his  titter. 

When  they  all  met  again,  Venetia,  with  a  flush  on  the 
ivory  of  her  cheek,  a  curious  light  in  her  shadowed  eyes, 
displayed  an  unwonted  gayety.  She  laughed,  she  even 
joked.  Colonel  Darcy  who,  two  or  three  times,  had  put 


NEW  WINE 

up  his  monocle,  as  if  to  examine  a  new  interesting  per- 
sonality, edged  away  from  Dorrie  Thurso,  whose  gamme 
charm  seemed  suddenly  mean — like  a  candle-flame  in  a 
moony  radiance — to  attach  himself  to  his  hostess. 

In  the  somnolent  hour  after  lunch,  Venetia  took  up  a 
guitar  from  the  wall  and  sang  two  or  three  Havanese 
songs.  Rhythm,  defiance,  languor,  and  fire  blended;  all 
in  the  perfection  of  taste  within  the  measure  of  perfect 
art,  it  was  an  exquisite  performance :  it  thrust  back  Dor- 
rie Thurso's  "turn"  of  the  night  before  into  the  trivial 
regions  to  which  it  belonged.  Even  Sir  Timothy  roused 
himself  from  lethargy  to  call  out  "bravo,"  and  roll  ap- 
praising eyes  in  which  admiration  struggled  with  cynical 
amusement. 

Shane,  troubled,  goaded,  puzzled,  listened  and  was 
dumb.  The  passionate  pity  of  the  morning,  the  high 
and  knightly  resolve  to  rescue  his  forlorn  lady  in  the 
teeth  of  all  difficulty,  even  in  spite  of  herself,  gave  place 
to  whirling  jealousy,  to  an  all  human  turmoil.  But  his 
resolution  had  merely  sunk  its  foundations  to  greater 
depth. 

He  had  not  one  word  with  her  during  the  rest  of  the 
day.  That  evening  Lady  Thurso  was  allotted  to  him, 
while  the  hostess  chose  Colonel  Darcy,  who  had  certainly 
changed  allegiance  with  the  most  open  candor. 

Mr.  Blythe  was  wont  to  keep  an  ever  watchful  eye  upon 
his  neophyte;  to-night  there  was  uneasiness  and  doubt  in 
his  observation.  It  is  all  very  well  to  take  amusement 
in  the  education  of  a  savage,  but  disconcerting  to  find  the 
said  savage  inclined  to  make  use  of  his  new  opportunities 
for  some  quite  uncivilized  purpose  of  his  own.  Mr. 
Blythe  did  not  like  the  expression  with  which  Shane  re- 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

garded  Venetia,  nor  did  he  find  reassurance  in  that'  lady's 
sudden  expansion,  her  delicate  efflorescence  of  coquetry; 
above  all,  in  her  deliberate  avoidance  of  all  notice  of  the 
young  man.  His  shrewd  wits  made  a  big  leap :  "By  Jove, 
he's  asked  her  to  bolt  with  him,  the  madcap  boy!  And 
she's  awfully  pleased — and  as  virtuous  as  you  like !"  He 
chuckled  secretly  in  the  midst  of  his  disturbing  conjec- 
tures. ...  It  was  just  dear  Venetia's  ineradicable  cling- 
ing to  virtue  that  made  her  so  interesting.  Lady  Ken 
went  thumping  about  her  with  her  lost  rectitude,  like  the 
medieval  fool  with  his  rattling  bladder;  but  Venetia 
wrapped  herself  in  veils  of  mysterious  illusion. 

Dorrie  Thurso  had  set  herself  out  to  make  the  best  of 
the  exchange  of  swains.  At  first  Shane  met  her  sallies 
with  silence,  or  the  monosyllabic  reply  which  is  almost  its 
equivalent.  But  there  are  questions  upon  which  an  Irish- 
man is  easily  stirred,  and  Lady  Thurso,  with  her  urchin 
acuteness,  was  quick  to  find  them.  How  did  he  like  Eng- 
land?— Not  at  all! — How  polite!  Why  did  he  live  there, 
then? 

"I  have  my  reasons." 

She  pealed  with  laughter. 

"Bad  as  England  is,  it  ain't  so  bad  a3  Ireland.  Ah, 
you  don't  answer?  Because  you  can't." 

"Begging  your  pardon,  I  can." 

She  cast  her  bright  glance  round  the  table,  inviting 
general  attention. 

"Lord  Kilmore  is  going  to  give  us  the  Irish  reason  for 
thinking  his  country  the  best  in  the  world — to  live  out 
of." 

"My  country,"  Shane's  brooding  blue  eyes  shot  red 
fire,  "is  what  England  has  made  it." 

223 


NEW  WINE 

"The  honorable  member,"  mocked  Dorrie  Thurso,  "is 
straying  from  the  point." 

"I  am  not." 

His  Hibernian  turn  of  phrase  afforded  matter  for  an 
explosion  of  mirth. 

"I  am  not,"  said  Shane,  "I'm  only  declining  to  discuss 
it." 

"Don't  you  know,  Lady  Thurso,"  Blythe  piped  across 
the  table,  "that  no  one  can  get  the  better  of  Ireland  in 
the  debates?" 

"Who  wants  to  get  the  better  of  Ireland?"  put  in  Sir 
Timothy  suddenly.  "It  seems  to  me  the  boot's  on  the 
other  leg — eh,  what,  Kilmore?" 

He  thrust  his  great  chin  forward  with  a  quite  amiable 
grin.  Shane  averted  his  eyes  from  it.  Then  he  turned 
squarely  upon  Lady  Thurso. 

"You're  wanting  to  know  what  ails  me  to  live  over  here 
when  I  can  live  in  Ireland.  Many  is  the  time  I've  been 
asking  myself  the  same  question.  Perhaps  you've  never 
done  anything  you've  wondered  at  yourself?  But  I  know 
now  what  keeps  me,  and  I  know  where  I'll  go  when  I  get  it." 

He  turned  his  eyes  back  to  his  plate,  and  there  was  a 
little  silence  round  the  table.  This  cryptic  remark  had 
produced  a  decided  sensation.  Blythe  flung  a  furtive  look 
from  Venetia  to  Shane  and  back  again ;  with  a  mixture 
of  anxiety  and  pleasurable  curiosity  he  realized  that  things 
had  gone  very  rapidly  indeed.  "  Ton  my  soul,"  thought 
the  young  cynic,  "they've  reached  the  stage  of  not  daring 
to  meet  each  other's  eyes.  High  time  to  put  a  stop  to 
this.  It's  the  deuce  and  all  that  to-morrow  should  be 
Whit  Monday." 

"When  you  get  what  you  want "  Lady  Thurso 

224 


had  twice  repeated  Shane's  phrase  in  an  ever  more  pro- 
vocative key.  "Listen  to  him,"  she  went  on,  again  chal- 
lenging the  audience  to  attention.  "Listen  to  him.  Does 
ever  any  one  get  what  he  wants?" 

"Haven't  you?" 

"Not  by  a  long  chalk !"  cried  the  young  lady  from  the 
Frivolity,  with  such  comic  emphasis  that  even  Joscelyn 
Browne  was  moved  to  a  sallow  smile. 

"When  one  hasn't  what  one  wants,  what  does  one  do. 
dean  lady?"  asked  Ely  the,  at  his  most  insinuating. 

"One  'loves  what  one  has,'  of  course!"  pouted  Lady 
Thurso. 

"No,"  said  Lady  Kenneth,  with  a  dark  flush,  "if  you're 
honest,  you  cut  losses  and  start  fresh." 

"If  you're  wise,"  said  Blythe,  with  a  gentle  air,  "you 
quietly  hate  what  you've  got — and  wait." 

"And  what  do  you  say,  Lord  Kilmore  ?"  Lady  Thurso 
returned  to  the  charge. 

"I  say  I'd  rather  be  honest  than  wise." 

"You're  not  for  the  waiting  game  then?" 

She  felt  vaguely  on  the  edge  of  discovery,  tentatively 
pushing  her  small  probe  here  and  there,  eager  to  note 
where  the  prick  told.  The  peasant  peer  was  a  handsome 
fellow  and  looked  at  her  with  dislike — a  combination  not 
to  be  borne;  demanding  reprisals.  And  "that  cat,  Vene- 
tia  Hobson,"  not  content  with  turning  the  wretched  boy's 
head,  had  now  robbed  her  of  her  own  legitimate  spoil. 
Lady  Thurso  had  still  the  frank  feelings  of  Miss  Dorrie 
Prince.  "I'll  pay  her  out  for  that,"  she  resolved.  There- 
fore the  question,  "You're  not  for  the  waiting  game?"  was 
unmistakably  edged  with  meaning. 

"I  am  not."  He  suddenly  lifted  his  eyes,  looked  full 

225 


NEW  WINE 

in  his  tormentor's  face  and  then,  with  equal  deliberation, 
at  Venetia's  drooped  head.  "I'm  for  doing  the  right  thing 
as  quick  as  it  can  be  done." 

Blythe  intervened  with  a  titter. 

"The  great  thing  is  to  be  sure  that  it  is  the  right  thing, 
isn't  it?  I  do  admire  Kilmore's  decision  of  character. 
Now,  I'm  so  vacillating.  I  think  ten  times  before  I 
plunge,  if  it's  even  at  Christie's  and  the  little  treasure  I've 
coveted  for  years  is  hanging  upon  the  hammer  stroke. 
Don't  you  know  the  feeling,  Joss-Sticks?  Supposing  one 
were  taken  in,  after  all?" 

But  Mr.  Browne  was  never  taken  in,  and  was  at  some 
pains  to  inform  Valentine  of  the  fact.  He  had  a  grating 
voice  and  an  emphatic  manner,  and  though  he  could  not 
interest  he  could  effectually  bear  down  his  company. 

Blythe  congratulated  himself  on  the  adroitness  of  his 
interposition,  still,  his  inner  perturbation  was  increasing 
to  positive  discomfort.  For  Venetia  Hobson  had  cast 
upon  him  a  single,  fleeting  glance ;  and  in  it  he  had  read 
defiance.  It  was  the  mischief  to  have  creatures  like  Dor- 
rie  Thurso  in  society!  Little  abomination  out  of  the 
gutter  as  she  was,  did  she  think  she  could  show  up  Shane, 
with  his  pride  of  race,  and  his  wild  simplicity?  "I  vow 
I'll  get  him  away  to-morrow!"  thought  the  bear-leader. 
"Five  minutes'  conversation  ought  to  do  the  trick,  and 
so  you  know,  dearest  Venetia !  And  yet,"  Valentine  pon- 
dered, "if  I  give  her  away — one  can  never  tell! — he's  got 
the  bit  between  his  teeth.  No  use  trying  to  check  a  run- 
away horse.  But  one  can  perhaps  divert — turn  him 
aside  from  the  chasm."  Mr.  Blythe  flattered  himself  that 
he  had  an  intimate  knowledge  of  human  nature.  But  the 

226 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

most  subtle  may  overreach  himself ;  and  so  he  found  within 
the  next  few  minutes. 

Deftly  he  gave  the  conversation  another  twist,  passed 
from  Joscelyn  Browne's  last  discovery  in  celadon  enamel 
to  hobbies  in  general,  and  thence,  by  a  graceful  transi- 
tion, to  the  difference  in  tastes  between  himself  and  Shane. 

"Kilmore,  there,  is  all  for  sport.  Now,  I  hate  sport. 
It  positively  revolts  me.  Tim,  turn  your  ear  aside. 
Though,  by  the  way,  no,  dear  old  fellow,  you  may  listen, 
for,  as  it  happens,  you  can  be  useful.  Didn't  I  hear  you 
say  that  there  was  a  yacht  for  sale,  somewhere  in  the 
neighborhood?  Now,  yachting  is  the  only  sport  I  con- 
sider worthy  of  a  civilized  being,  and  I'm  rather  anxious 
to  encourage  my  friend  there,  in  that  line — because  you 
see,"  he  smiled  engagingly,  "he  can  take  me  about  with 
him." 

Sir  Timothy,  who  had  sunk  into  the  supine  attitude 
which  generally  succeeded  his  first  bottle  of  champagne, 
raised  himself  to  turn  an  interested  eye. 

"Wants  a  yacht,  does  he?  Good  man!  But  I  don't 
know  about  Urquhart's.  It's  a  steam  yacht — not  a  bad 

craft  for  cruising.  But  if  he  wants  to  race "  His 

eye  caught  Shane's.  "If  you  want  to  race,  why  not  get 
a  vessel  built  for  yourself?" 

"Do  you  want  to  race,  dear  boy?" 

Shane  did  not  reply.  For  a  moment  he  sat  as  if  turned 
to  stone,  lost  in  intense  cogitation.  A  dark  color  was 
mounting  slowly  in  his  countenance. 

"Do  you  want  to  race,  dear  boy?"  repeated  Blythe, 
sharply  peevish. 

"I  do  not,"  said  Shane.  "I'll  go  and  see  that  yacht 
to-morrow."  He  now  looked  straight  at  his  host.  "If 

227 


NEW  WINE 

I  like  her,  I'll  buy  her.  I  did  not  want  to  be  buying  a  steam 
one,  but  it  will  have  to  do.'*  And,  without  any  attempt 
to  soften  the  abruptness  of  the  communication,  he  went 
on :  "I  could  do  the  business  on  my  way  home,  maybe,  for 
I'll  have  to  be  gone  in  the  morning." 

There  was  a  moment's  startled  silence.  Lady  Thurso 
pursed  her  lip  and  rolled  a  meaning  eye  at  Colonel  Darcy, 
who  twisted  his  mustache  and  pulled  down  his  waistcoat. 
Lady  Kenneth  interchanged  an  eloquent  look  with  Blythe. 
Sir  Timothy  thrust  out  his  jaw  and  scratched  it,  and 
Venetia  at  last  turned  her  gaze  upon  her  strange  young 
lover.  But  now  it  was  he  who  kept  his  eyes  averted. 

That  night  he  found  a.  letter  laid  upon  his  blotter : — 

"You  cannot  leave  me  like  this,  without  seeing  me  again. 
How  can  I  know  what  to  do — what  I  ought  to  do? — V." 

He  gave  her  the  answer  in  a  snatched  moment  before 
breakfast,  for  Lady  Hobson  contrived  next  morning  to 
appear  at  that  meal,  even  before  her  guests  had  assembled. 

"Did  you  think  I  was  running  away  from  you?"  Shane 
took  her  hand  and  held  it  gripped :  his  whole  air  was  one 
of  strength,  as  they  stood,  in  the  flood  of  sunshine  by 
the  window  of  the  breakfast  room.  "I  know  what's  right 
for  you  to  do,  what's  right  for  me  to  do.  And  I  intend 
that  we  shall  do  it.  I'll  be  coming  back  for  you.  That's 
the  way  out  of  it.  I'll  bring  that  yacht  round  in  the  bay 
one  of  these  fine  mornings,  and  it'll  take  you  away  from 
this  house  of  wickedness,  and  all  your  sorrows." 

"But,  but " 

Her  hand  was  lying  in  his,  her  eyes  were  looking  up 
at  him.  What  her  lips  said  could  have  no  significance 
when  the  whole  lovely  woman  gave  herself  in  that  gaze. 

228 


THE  WHITE  SHRINE 

"I'm  thanking  God,"  cried  Shane,  "that  you've  seen 
the  right  way  out,  and  I'm  thanking  Him  still  more,"  he 
bowed  his,  young  dark  head  reverently,  and  lifted  her  hand 
to  his  lips,  "that  He's  allowed  me  to  be  the  one  to  help 
you,  through  my  love." 

"Hush!"  She  gave  an  anxious  glance  over  her  shoul- 
der and  withdrew  her  fingers  from  his  clasp. 

"Why  is  it  hush?" 

"I  thought  I  heard  Timothy  whistle  to  the  dogs,  out 
there  on  the  terrace." 

"What  matter?" 

The  look  she  cast  on  him  now  was  one  of  terror.  He 
stood  very  erect,  squaring  his  shoulders,  defiant. 

"Why  should  you  be  ashamed  to  do  right?  I'm  not  the 
man  to  be  stealing  another  man's  wife.  I'll  not  be  acting 
as  if  I  were.  I'll  do  the  thing  straight,  and  so  will  you. 
And  we'll  do  it  in  the  light  of  day.  We'll " 

She  interrupted  him. 

"You're  mad,  you're  mad!"  Her  voice  whispered  and 
fluttered  breathlessly.  "It's  all  impossible.  You  don't 
know — you  don't — you  don't  understand.  You  don't 
know  Timothy — how  awful  he  can  be.  The  scandal! 
No — better  give  it  up.  I  will  give  it  up  !" 

Shane  had  a  moment's  anger,  swallowed  up  instantly 
in  a  rush  of  intense  pity.  "You  don't  know  Timothy!" 
What  a  tale  of  suffering  lay  behind  these  words :  it  was  not 
for  him  to  add  another  chapter  to  it. 

"Have  it  your  own  way,  then,"  he  said,  very  gently. 
But  the  glow  of  rapture  had  left  him.  "Let  it  be  in  se- 
cret. Come  out  of  this  house  as  if  it  was  a  sin — instead 
of  casting  off  sin.  I'll  not  blame  you — no,  my  darling." 
It  was  the  first  time  he  had  used  a  word  of  endearment  to 

229 


NEW  WINE 

her;  it  fell  with  a  great  tenderness,  yet  without  passion, 
from  his  lips.  "I'd  never  blame  you.  And  the  day  will 
come  when  you  can  face  the  world  by  my  side  and  never 
know  the  fear  again.  Leave  it  to  me,  I'll  come  for  you 
when  all  is  ready.  I'll  not  be  failing  or  blundering. 
You'll  be  hearing  from  me." 

A  shout  from  Sir  Timothy  and  a  cavernous  bark  from 
one  of  the  bulldogs  on  the  terrace  made  Venetia  start. 
She  moved  swiftly  away  from  the  window. 

"You'll  be  hearing  from  me,"  repeated  Shane,  disdain- 
ing to  lower  his  voice. 

"Hallo,"  said  Sir  Timothy,  entering  the  room,  "we 
don't  often  have  the  treat  of  your  company  at  breakfast, 
my  lady!  What's  up?" 

"I  wanted  to  say  good-by  to  our  guest,"  said  she,  with 
an  amazing  suavity.  "Since  he  insists  on  leaving  us  so 
unexpectedly.  I  am  trying  to  persuade  him  to  come 
back." 

Shane's  face  was  dark  enough  as  he  sat  down  to  the 
table.  He  scorned,  hated  these  subterfuges ;  but  com- 
passion for  her  woman's  weakness  again  rose  paramount. 
"God  help  her — it's  well  I'm  taking  her  out  of  this,  or 
she'd  be  lost  altogether!"  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
ethereal  head  and  its  nimbus  of  dusky  hair;  of  the  pearl 
outline  of  her  cheek;  and  youthful  love  surged  in  him. 
Soul  and  body  he  would  snatch  her  to  himself. 


VIII 


THE   ARIADNE 

SHANE'S  chosen  day  was  spread  about  with  mists,  and 
as  his  new  purchase,  the  Ariadne,  drew  in  as  near  the 
land  as  safety  would  allow,  he  could  scarcely  discern  the 
outline  of  the  cliffs. 

It  was  a  blurred  world — a  sea  like  oil — the  very  morn- 
ing for  a  deed  of  secrecy,  to  cover  the  flight  of  a  woman 
out  of  her  husband's  house,  but  not  at  all  the  morning  for 
Shane's  humor. 

The  white  pall  seemed  to  lie  as  heavy  on  the  inner  as 
on  the  outer  man.  It  was  on  such  a  day  of  mists  that  he 
had  been  summoned  away  from  Clenane;  but,  then,  great 
winds  had  blown  in  from  the  sea,  and  there  had  been  life 
even  in  the  obliteration  that  swept  across  the  land.  Now 
all  life  seemed  dead;  the  pulse  of  passion  that  had  been 
beating  so  fiercely  this  fortnight  of  feverish  activity  di- 
viding him  from  his  desire,  had  fallen  still.  The  future 
spread  as  obscure,  as  blankly  veiled  as  the  land  before 
him.  A  strange  sense  of  wrongdoing  hung  about  him. 
Though  reason  and  conscience  acclaimed  his  purpose; 
though  his  act  of  human  love  became,  through  its  inten- 
tion, a  deed  of  highest  charity,  nevertheless  some  baffling 
super-sense  warned,  clamored  for  pause. 

It  was  perhaps,  that  out  at  sea  there,  with  the  acrid 
mist  in  his  nostrils,  and  the  creeping  lap  of  the  water  in 
his  ears,  the  memory  of  old  days  was  too  strong  upon  him ; 

231 


NEW  WINE 

perhaps  because  his  heart,  vowed  to  new,  stormy,  and  dif- 
ficult loyalty,  smote  him  for  treachery  to  the  old,  easy, 
simple  one.  As  he  leaned  over  the  railing,  striving  to 
pierce  the  baffling  whiteness,  he  for  a  moment  felt  Moira's 
presence  so  vividly  beside  him  that  it  was  almost  startling ; 
the  warm,  innocent,  strong  presence  of  Moira  who  had 
loved  him  with  such  deep,  unselfish  ardors.  Then  he  re- 
membered how  Venetia  also,  had  been  ready  to  sacrifice; 
to  sacrifice  even  her  soul  for  what  she  thought  best  for 
him.  Her  mistaken  effort  at  renunciation — how  piteous 
— to  be  foUowed  by  that  trembling  capitulation !  Moira 
had  held  to  her  sacrifice  for  his  sake;  but  Venetia  had 
called  him  back.  Ah,  it  had  been  all  the  sweet  weakness 
of  love  he  had  seen  in  her  gaze  of  surrender !  It  was  for 
him  now  to  make  the  step,  taken  in  secrecy,  and  as  if  in 
guilt,  the  first  on  the  road  of  honor  and  redemption. 

xHe  let  himself  down  into  the  waiting  dinghy;  and,  un- 
attended, rowed  to  the  shore.  Though  it  was  before  the 
hour  fixed  in  her  letter,  she  was  already  standing  within 
the  boathouse  by  the  landing.  Even  in  June,  early  morn- 
ings are  chill  in  the  north,  and  the  mist  was  penetrating. 
Out  of  her  wrappings  Venetia  turned  a  pinched  face  upon 
him.  She  looked  like  a  gray  ghost  of  herself.  There  was 
no  light  in  her  eyes,  no  smile  upon  her  lip,  no  word  of 
greeting.  He  would  have  taken  her  into  his  arms,  but 
they  fell  back  by  his  side. 

"Are  you  not  wanting  to  come?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Why  do  you  ask  such  a  question?"  her  tone  was  pet- 
tish :    "I  am  here." 

She  held  a  little  bag  such  as  ladies  use  for  their  jewels ; 
he  took  it  from  her  without  further  speech,  and  then  put 

232 


THE  ARIADNE 

his  arm  round  her  to  guide  her  along  the  narrow  landing- 
stage  towards  the  boat. 

"Must  I  get  into  that?"  She  looked  down  at  the 
dinghy,  rising  and  falling  on  the  incoming  tide,  and  shud- 
dered. He  descended  the  stone  steps  in  silence,  drew  the 
boat  closer  alongside;  and,  as  she  came  hesitating  for- 
ward, caught  her  in  his  arms  and  lifted  her  in  like  a  child. 
As  he  assisted  her  to  the  seat  marked  by  cushion  and 
rug,  she  glanced  at  him,  and  for  the  first  time,  smiled. 

"How  strong  you  are !" 

"It's  you  that  are  the  butterfly  weight,"  he  smiled 
back,  caught  up  the  oars  and  with  a  couple  of  masterly 
strokes  swung  the  craft  clear  of  the  miniature  jetty,  then 
out  seaward.  She  watched  him,  the  fretfulness  passed 
from  her  face,  and  a  color  faint  as  the  sunshine  now  pierc- 
ing the  mists  seaward,  spread  over  the  pallor  of  her 
cheek. 

"I  cannot  see  the  shore,  and  I  cannot  see  the  yacht," 
she  exclaimed  presently.  "How  strange !  Here  we  are 
together,  on  the  sea,  like  creatures  lost  in  space !  How 
strange !" 

From  Shane,  now  warmed  through  by  the  exercise,  ex- 
hilarated with  the  sense  of  his  own  strength,  despondency 
slipped  like  a  falling  cloak;  disillusion  relaxed  the  tran- 
sient grip  on  his  heart. 

"It's  not  lost  you  are,  but  found,  my  darling  love !" 

"Call  me  some  sweet  Irish  name.'* 

"Asthore,"  he  began.  The  tone  was  ardent  enough,  but 
the  radiant  moment  was  of  a  sudden  dimmed.  "Asthore, 
Mavourneen,  Alanna!"  it  was  between  the  kisses  he  had 
rained  on  Moira's  innocent  lips  that  these  words  had  first 
escaped  him.  "No,  those  names  are  not  for  you!"  he 

233 


NEW  WINE 

cried,  wrenching  himself  from  the  claim  of  the  past  with 
violence.  Then  he  remembered  that  he  had  never  yet 
kissed  her,  and  he  flung  new  energy  into  his  oars  that  the 
moment  might  be  hastened. 

As  they  came  on  board,  he  brought  her  at  once  to  the 
state-room — all  white  enamel  and  rose  brocades.  He  had 
acquired  the  yacht  as  it  stood,  and  it  was  luxuriously 
fitted  out.  He  had  added  to  the  luxury  things  that  ap- 
pealed to  his  uncultivated  yet  poetic  taste.  There  were 
roses  in  a  silver  bowl,  purple  orchids  in  a  cut  glass  goblet, 
a  sable  rug  on  the  couch,  piles  of  cushions. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone  he  strained  her  to  him. 
But  she  lay  so  passive  in  his  arms  that  he  let  her  go 
quickly.  Then  her  pallor  frightened  him. 

"You're  worn  out!"  he  cried  with  remorse,  "and  I'm 
the  stupidest  fellow.  Lie  on  the  sofa  there,  my  darling, 
and  rest.  I'll  not  be  troubling  you  at  all  for  a  bit.  I'll 
be  sending  you  in  some  coffee.  I'll  go  warrant  bite  or 
sup  has  not  passed  your  lips  this  morning.  Lie  there  and 
rest.  There's  a  nice  breeze  getting  up,  and  the  mist  is 
clearing  away.  We'll  be  safe  off  in  no  time." 

In  silence,  submissive  and  weary,  she  sank  in  the  cush- 
ions and  allowed  him  to  cover  her  with  the  fur  his  lavish 
love  had  provided.  He  did  not  touch  her  again  or  speak, 
but  after  standing  a  moment  hesitatingly  looking  down 
at  her,  went  out  on  deck. 

She  heard  his  footfall  die  away ;  he  went  slowly,  as  if  in 
deep  thought.  Presently  the  yacht  began  to  move  like  a 
creature  of  life.  The  throb  of  the  engine  vibrated,  the 
rush  of  the  waters  whispered  against  the  slender,  shapely 
sides.  The  Ariadne  was  carrying  her  new  master  away 
on  his  strange  venture. 

234 


THE  ARIADNE 

When  Shane  returned  to  the  stateroom  the  sun  had 
fully  broken  through  the  haze,  the  sea  spread  green  and 
sparkling.  The  spray  and  the  breath  of  the  element  he 
loved  was  all  about  him,  his  step  had  recovered  its  spring. 
He  came  in  eagerly.  She  was  sitting  up,  her  elbows  on 
the  table,  a  half-finished  cup  of  coffee  thrust  on  one  side. 
She  had  removed  her  hat ;  and  out  of  the  shadows  of  her 
loosened  hair  she  looked  up  at  him  without  a  smile. 

"Where  are  you  taking  me?"  she  asked. 

He  suppressed  a  slight  start,  and  sat  down  opposite  her. 

"Where  would  I  be  taking  you  to?  To  my  own  coun- 
try, of  course,  to  Ireland." 

He  drew  the  coffee-pot  towards  him  as  he  spoke,  and 
filled  the  other  cup.  As  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  she  said, 
in  uninflected  accents : 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Ireland." 

He  put  down  the  cup  untasted. 

"You're  not  wanting  to  go  to  Ireland?" 

"No."  Here  her  whole  being  altered,  softened.  "Dear- 
est," she  said,  coaxingly,  like  a  child,  "I  am  so  cold,  so 
tired !  Take  me  quite  away,  take  me  where  the  sun  shines 
strong,  and  the  skies  are  blue,  blue !  Naples,  Sicily.  I 
am,  somehow,"  her  voice  shook  with  self-pity,  she  nestled 
closer  into  the  furred  cloak,  "cold  to  the  very  bone." 

Staring  blankly  at  her,  he  said: — 

"I'd  find  it  hard  to  be  explaining  things  to  a  foreign 
priest —  He  stopped,  brushing  his  hand  across  his 

forehead ;  and,  with  an  effort,  rallying  himself  to  tender- 
ness :  "It's  the  way  we'd  get  married  quick,  my  darling," 
he  went  on,  "that  I'm  bringing  you  to  my  own  country." 

She  opened  her  lips  as  if  to  answer,  but  no  word  issued 
from  them.  Then,  she  fretfully  asked  him  to  pull  the 

235 


NEW  WINE 

curtain  across  the  cabin  window — did  he  not  see  the  sun 
was  in  her  eyes  ? 

When  he  came  back  to  her,  she  did  not  look  at  him ;  she 
was  sitting  in  the  same  attitude,  save  that  her  forehead 
was  pressed  against  her  hands  so  that  he  could  hardly  see 
her  face. 

"We  have  got  to  talk  sense,"  she  said  in  a  tired  way. 
"We  cannot  be  married  like  that." 

"We  can't?" 

"No,  Shane.  We  have  got  to  wait  until  Sir  Timothy 
divorces  me." 

"You  call  that  talking  sense  ?" 

She  gave  a  little  shrug.  At  this,  he  sat  down,  rigid, 
fixing  her  with  scared  eyes.  Gradually  his  young  face 
became  drained  of  blood : — 

"Then  it  is  the  bad  Catholic  you  are,  after  all !" 

"For  Heaven's  sake — Shane !" 

Stretching  out  her  left  hand,  she  laid  it  on  his  arm.  He 
saw  that  it  was  ringless ;  and  with  a  smothered  e j  aculation 
he  caught  it  to  his  lips. 

"Ah,  wait — listen !"  she  cried.  "Yes,  I  cast  off  that  ring 
to  come  to  you,  but  do  not  forget  that  it  had  a  real  mean- 
ing for  me  once.  I  have  been  married  by  the  law  of  the 
land,  do  not  forget  that.  Oh,  think!"  She  had  a  tear- 
less sob.  "Where  do  you  place  me  ?  How  should  I  stand 
before  myself  and  you,  if  there  was  not  at  least  that  legal 
marriage?" 

Adroit  as  the  evasion  was,  Shane  was  too  single-minded 
to  lose  sight  of  the  real  issue  between  her  and  him. 

"What's  that  law  you  talk  of?"  he  cried.  "What  is  it 
to  you,  what  is  it  to  me?  Nothing!  Less  than  the  snap 
of  my  fingers.  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is  with  you.  You've  got 

236 


THE  ARIADNE 

confused,  you  poor  creature,  with  the  way  you've  lost 
yourself.  But  sure,  that's  not  how  you've  the  right  to  be 
looking  at  it  at  all.  What  is  that  Protestant  law  to  us 
Catholics  ?  It's  the  wrong  end  of  the  stick  you've  got  hold 
of.  It's:  'How  could  I  be  here  with  him  at  all,  if  I  was 
not  free,  if  there  was  a  shadow  of  anything  binding  be- 
tween me  and  that  other  man?'  That's  what  you  ought 
to  be  saying  to  yourself."  He  sprang  up,  came  round 
to  her,  and  kneeling,  enfolded  her  with  all  the  passion  of 
an  honest  love.  "It's :  'How  could  he  be  holding  me  like 
this,  if  I  was  not  free — how  could  he  be  kissing  me,  and  I 
letting  him,  if  that  other  man  had  any  right  to  call  me 
wife?'  What  is  that  you  say?" 

Almost  inaudibly  she  breathed  in  his  ear: 

"No  priest  will  marry  us." 

He  started  back. 

"You've  no  call  to  be  saying  that,  I  tell  you,  Venetia, 
= — for  I  happen  to  know,  I  happen  to  know,  I  say,  yours  is 
no  marriage,  to  a  Catholic." 

"But  think  for  yourself — it  is  such  madness  !  He  would 
have  to — to  find  out  so  many  things,  in  the  first  place — 
and  he  will  want  proofs.  It  will  take  weeks  and  weeks, 

and  then "  The  force  of  her  own  arguments  seemed 

to  renew  her  self-confidence.  Holding  him  back  from  her 
by  the  shoulder,  she  went  on.  "Dearest,  I  know  I  can 
trust  you.  But  what  you  intend  now  is  folly.  Until  I 
am  free  by  law,  I  do  not  consider  it  right  to  marry  you. 
Let  us  have  patience,  it  will  not  be  hard  to  wait.  Some- 
where together,  under  lovely  skies,  we  shall  learn  to  know 
each  other,  to  love  each  other — ever  more  deeply,  tenderly. 
Don't  you  see  I  am  not  asking  too  much?  Can  you  not 
understand?  If  I  did  what  you  want,  even  if  it  could  be 

237 


NEW  WINE 

done,  to  all  society,  to  all  my  friends,  I  should  be  as  one 
who  has  broken  the  law  of  the  land.  A — a  bigamist — or 
not  married  at  all." 

Her  soft  arms  were  round  his  neck.  She  had  drawn 
his  head  into  the  fragrant  warmth  of  her  furs.  Her  lips 
sought  his.  He  tore  himself  away  from  her. 

"You  have  me  that  I  don't  know  what  I'd  be  saying," 
he  exclaimed  incoherently,  and  dashed  out,  letting  the 
door  swing  after  him.  The  sunshine,  the  breeze,  the  rumor 
and  the  throbbing  of  their  way  rushed  in  upon  her.  She 
sat  up — intensely  waiting,  every  moment  expecting  to  see 
the  great  seascape,  the  distant  view  of  the  coast,  shift; 
to  feel  the  lithe  craft  respond  to  an  altered  helm;  to  be- 
come conscious  of  a  swinging  curve  instead  of  the  straight 
set  course.  She  expected  the  sound  of  his  returning  foot- 
step; quickly  to  hear  him  cry,  that  all  had  been  ordered 
as  she  wished.  But  there  was  no  change  in  the  arrow  flight 
of  the  Ariadne.  Yet  presently  she  knew  something  was 
happening — the  beat  of  the  engine  was  doubled,  the  rush 
of  the  vessel  through  the  waters  was  gaining  speed.  She 
sprang  to  her  feet.  At  the  same  moment  Shane  re-entered. 

"In  an  hour  and  a  half,  at  this  rate,"  he  said,  "we  shall 
touch  Larne." 

"Lame!" 

"Ay — that's  where  we'll  be  landing.  There  will  be  some 
grand  kind  of  hotel  at  Belfast.  Ay,  and  the  best  of  shops. 
You'll  be  wanting  to  buy  things  for  yourself,  and  the  while 
I'll  be  seeing  about  the  priest.  If  we've  got  to  be  waiting 
a  few  days  before  we  are  married — for  maybe  you're  right 
there,  maybe  he  will  want  proofs — I  can  settle  you  some- 
where quiet  and  safe.  Or  I  can  be  leaving  you  in  the  yacht 
and  take  train  and  boat  myself.  But  anyhow  it  will  go 

238 


THE  ARIADNE 

hard  if  I  don't  get  those  proofs  and  be  back  again,  with 
no  more  loss  of  time  that  the  traveling  will  put  on  me." 

There  fell  a  heavy  silence.  They  were  standing,  facing 
each  other;  her  glance  wavered  from  his,  she  bit  her  lip. 

"Had  you  not  better  take  me  back?"  she  said  at  last. 
Her  voice  was  icy. 

"Where  should  I  be  taking  you  back  to?"  He  could 
not  bring  himself  to  understand. 

"Back  to  the  home  you've  torn  me  from,  Lord  Kilmore." 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause,  unbearable  in  its  sug- 
gestion to  his  bewildered  mind.  At  last  he  said,  helplessly : 

"I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  understand  what  you're  driv- 
ing at." 

"Why  should  I  stay  with  you?"  She  gave  herself  up  to 
anger.  "You  are  cruel.  You  have  no  chivalry,  no  consid- 
eration for  me.  You  refuse  me  my  first  request.  I  am  in 
your  power,  and  you  humiliate  me.  You — 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  he  interrupted,  "in  the  name  of 
His  Holy  Mother,  what  is  at  the  back  of  this?" 

She  came  closer  to  him. 

"Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Do  you  love  me  ?" 

"Are  you  doubting  me?  Is  that  it?  Oh,  what  ails  you 
— you're  driving  me  out  of  my  senses !  To  see  you  stand 
there,  looking  at  me  with  the  same  dreadful  sorrow  in  your 
eyes — I  that  came  all  the  length  of  England  to  take  it 
out  of  them!  There's  something  between  us.  Haven't  I 
felt  it  from  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  waiting  for  me? 
My  God,  I  felt  it  before  I  left  the  yacht  at  all !  Maybe  it's 
the  power  of  evil  that  has  had  hold  of  you  so  long;  maybe 
it's  striving  to  keep  us  apart  still.  When  I  was  offering 

239 


NEW  WINE 

you  my  love  didn't  I  be  promising  you  the  peace  of  God 
at  one  and  the  same  time?  Ah,  my  darling,  you'll  not  get 
it  till  you've  laid  your  sin  at  the  foot  of  the  priest !  You 
that's  blaming  me  for  wanting  to  bring  you  to  the  priest. 
If  it  were  for  that  alone  I  couldn't  get  you  soon  enough 
into  Ireland.  Isn't  it  the  best  kindness  I  can  have  for  you 
— what's  all  the  rest  compared  to  that?  Ah,  don't  look 
away,  alanna !  Drive  those  hard  thoughts  from  you ! 
What's  society — what's  all  this  talk  of  your  friends  once 
you've  got  God  as  your  friend,  and  His  blessing  on  our 
love?" 

The  tide  of  impassioned  words  was  suddenly  arrested. 
Venetia  had  turned  and  was  looking  at  him,  smiling.  His 
blood  froze ;  the  intangible  horror  he  had  been  fighting  all 
the  morning  took  sudden  consistency.  The  old  anguish  in 
her  eyes  that,  but  the  moment  before,  had  tormented  him, 
was  replaced  by  a  cold  enmity. 

"No  priest  will  marry  us."  She  repeated  the  words; 
they  had  a  new  significance  for  him. 

"You'll  be  having  a  reason  for  saying  that."  He  spoke 
slowly. 

"If  you  want  to  marry  me,  there  is  only  one  way  you 
can  do  it,  and  that  is  through  the  law." 

Again  he  was  aware  that  this  reiteration  was  full  of  a 
menace  which  had  before  escaped  him. 

"I'm  waiting  to  hear  the  rest." 

"Ah,  but  I  am  waiting  to  hear  from  you  that  you  are 
a  man  of  honor.  Shane !"  she  stretched  out  her  arms. 

"The  truth  now !"  he  caught  her  by  the  wrist  and  held 
her  from  him. 

She  struggled,  crying  that  he  hurt  her.  Fury,  misery, 
reluctance,  swept  across  her  like  waves ;  but  he  did  not 

240 


THE  ARIADNE 

relax  his  grip;  and  his  will  held  her  even  more  than  his 
hands. 

"The  truth!" 

"The  truth,  then.  The  truth,  you  fool !  How  dare  you 
come  to  me  and  tempt  me  from  my  home  and  my  husband 
without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  find  out  one  single  thing 
about  me?  Is  it  my  fault?  You  dare  not  say  it  is  my 
fault.  You  sought  me,  you  thrust  your  love  on  me.  How 
was  I  to  know  that  this  prate  of  religion  was  anything 
but  the  cloak  for  love?  How  was  I  to  think  that  you  were 
really — really  and  truly — the  idiot  you  made  yourself 
out?  I  cannot  let  you  take  me  to  a  priest  and  marry  me 
— that's  the  truth.  You  can  marry  me,  as  Timothy  did, 
when  Timothy  divorces  me — Timothy  waited  till  my  first 
husband  divorced  me — you  can  do  the  same." 

"Your — your  first  husband.    It's  raving  mad  you  are !" 

"Ninny !" 

His  clutching  fingers  had  dropped  from  her.  She 
glanced  down  at  the  red  marks  on  her  wrists  and  back  at 
him. 

Then  she  walked  to  the  couch  and  sat,  moving  the  coffee 
cups  on  one  side  with  deliberate  touch,  to  stretch  her  arms 
across  the  table.  Presently  she  began  to  play  upon  it 
with  her  fingers  as  if  striking  invisible  notes. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  you?"  Shane  roused  himself 
from  his  stupor  at  last.  He  spoke  in  a  voice  from  which 
all  life  had  gone. 

"Have  you  any  hesitation?"  She  stopped  her  dreadful 
dumb  tune  to  fix  him  with  a  devouring  look. 

"If  I  bring  you  back — I  bring  you  back  to  sin.  If  I 
keep  you  with  me,  it's  keeping  you  in  sin.  Where,  in  the 
world,  is  there  a  place  for  a  woman  like  you?" 

241 


NEW  WINE 

"Sin — sin!  I  admire  your  delicate  conscience,  Lord 
Kilmore.  What  does  love  mean  to  you,  then?  Is  there 
nothing  sacred  in  it,  nothing  pure,  nothing  binding?  Oh 
—Shane!" 

He  flung  her  over  his  shoulder  a  glance  haunted  as  with 
fear,  and  moved  towards  the  door.  With  a  swift  rush  she 
forestalled  him. 

"Ah,  no — no,  you  cannot  leave  me.  Do  you  not  see  I 
am  lost  if  you  cast  me  away?  If  you're  a  man  of  honor, 
if  you  have  a  heart,  if  you  love  me,  if  you  love  me — oh, 
Shane,  hold  me,  keep  me!  Never  let  me  go.  What  is  sin? 
There  is  only  one  sin,  one  you  could  not  commit,  one  that 
God  would  not  forgive,  if  there  is  a  God,  that  you  should 
be  false  to  me  now.  I  trusted  you,  you  cannot  ruin  me! 
One  word,  Shane !  Ah !  I  might  have  known !  You  are 
no  gentleman!  How  could  I  have  been  so  mad!  You 
are  no  gentleman.  You  are  nothing  but  an  Irish  peasant !" 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a  long  wail.  He  stood  rigid 
as  the  rock  stands  under  the  drenching  and  beating  of  the 
bitter  waters.  That  was  all  he  could  do :  to  hold  himself 
in  strength  upon  the  foundations  of  his  life's  teachings. 

She  cast  herself  upon  the  couch  and  broke  into  sobs. 
There  she  lay,  like  a  lily  struck  down  by  the  storm — she 
whom  he  had  worshiped  for  her  purity,  for  her  starry 
aloofness,  her  high  and  delicate  disdain! 


IX 


HONOR   AMONG   THIEVES 

AN  hour  before  noon,  the  gay  south  wind  blowing,  the 
sea  laughing  and  lapping  against  the  jagged  coast  line, 
russet  rocks  all  overtopped  with  stately  woods,  here  and 
there  blurred  with  the  carmines  and  purples  of  the  rho- 
dodendrons :  such  a  different  world  from  the  realm  of  white 
mystery  he  had  traversed  only  that  morning — it  seemed 
years  since,  to  Shane — bent  on  his  high,  fantastic  quest ! 
The  radiant  bubble  of  his  knightly  love  and  folly  had 
burst.  There  was  nothing  left  between  his  hands  but  bit- 
ter scum,  not  an  illusion,  not  a  regret,  not  even  a  pity. 

"What  in  the  world  is  to  be  done  with  such  a  woman 
as  you?" 

The  woman  had  decided.  Turned  upon  her  course,  the 
Ariadne  was  sent  speeding  back  to  the  bay.  From  the 
moment  when  she  saw  that  she  had  failed,  Venetia's  mind 
was  made  up.  What  other  possible  solution  could  Shane 
offer  her?  None,  that  she  would  even  discuss,  save  the 
solution  which  his  soul  rebelled  against  with  all  its  in- 
tegrity. 

"You  must  take  me  back — back  to  the  house  of  sin, 
as  you  call  it,"  she  sneered.  And  sneering  again :  "Unless 
you  are  afraid,"  she  added. 

Afraid? — it  was  that  word  decided  hm. 

"Ay,  I'll  bring  you  back,  and  whatever  Sir  Timothy  has 
to  say,  he  can  say  to  me.  I  am  altogether  at  your  orders." 

243 


NEW  WINE 

She  gave  a  slight  shrug. 

"You  will  be  good  enough,  Lord  Kilmore,  to  let  me  make 
what  explanations  I  consider  fitting  to  my  husband.  Now, 
if  you  please,  give  the  necessary  orders.  I  wish  to  be 
alone  until  it  is  time  to  leave  the  yacht." 

While  she  spoke,  she  lifted  her  jewel  bag  on  to  the  table. 
He  stood  watching  her  for  a  moment  yet,  while  she  sought 
for  and  picked  out  of  some  inner  pocket  the  heavy  circlet 
which  was  Sir  Timothy's  wedding-ring.  She  cynically 
put  it  back  on  her  finger.  He  caught  the  milky  glint  of 
great  pearls  within,  and,  remembering  the  portrait  as  he 
flung  himself  out  of  the  cabin,  felt  certain,  with  an  acrid 
inner  laugh  for  vanished  glamour,  that  the  high  lady  of  his 
dreams  had  not  forgotten  to  carry  away  the  best  of  her 
spoils  with  her. 

She  came  out  of  the  state-room  as  soon  as  the  engines 
stopped,  and  stood  silently  beside  him,  watching  the  lower- 
ing and  the  manning  of  the  gig. 

Since  she  meant  to  bluff  the  situation,  Shane's  instinct 
told  him  that  the  more  circumstance  surrounded  their 
landing,  the  more  plausible  it  would  seem.  That  she  meant 
to  bluff  he  could  have  no  doubt.  Looking  at  her  he  was 
amazed  to  see  her  air  of  assurance,  her  conscious  dignity. 
There  was  hardly  a  trace  of  those  anguished,  desperate 
tears ;  the  pearly  texture  of  her  cheek,  the  calm  sweetness 
of  her  folded  lips,  the  exquisite  self-containment  of  move- 
ment and  attitude  were  all  as  he  had  once  worshiped  them. 
The  goddess  had  rearranged  her  draperies  and  stepped 
back  upon  her  pedestal,  but  he  knew  the  clay  of  which  she 
was  made,  and  his  heart  turned  with  a  sickening  qualm 
against  the  memory  of  his  own  mad  illusion. 

They  did  not  exchange  a  single  word.    It  was  the  sailor 


HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

standing  in  the  balancing  gig  who  caught  her  in  his  arms, 
and  guided  her  to  her  place.  Shane  laid  the  jewel-case 
at  her  feet  and  himself  took  the  rudder  lines.  The  crew 
of  the  gig  smartly  gave  way.  The  tide  was  high  and 
the  landing  on  the  pier  easy.  They  went  up  from  the 
shore  by  the  path  leading  to  the  rhododendron  glade, 
Shane  bearing  the  little  purple  leather  bag  as  well  as  the 
sable  cloak.  When  they  had  reached  level  ground,  she 
said  to  him: 

"Do  you  mind  coming  as  far  as  the  house?  I  should 
prefer  my  husband  to  see  you  with  me." 

His  eyes  questioned.  She  was  moving  by  his  side  with 
an  even  step ;  her  manner,  her  tone,  her  whole  appearance 
were  so  completely  what  he  had  first  known  in  her,  that 
it  seemed  as  if  he  must  have  just  awakened  from  a  ridic- 
ulous and  fatiguing  nightmare.  Yet  here  he  was,  carrying 
her  jewel-case,  her  furs  over  his  arm! 

"It  is  just  possible  no  one  has  missed  me  yet,"  she  went 
on.  "But  I  am  not  going  to  take  that  possibility  into 
consideration.  I  prefer  to  return  in  a  perfectly  open 
manner." 

Shane  had  it  in  him  to  cast  himself  on  the  ground,  like 
a  child,  and  bemoan  the  hideous  tangle,  out  of  which  there 
was  for  her  only  this  horrible  road.  Back  to  the  house 
of  sm!  He  had  madly  offered  her  money — money  to  any 
amount.  Still  more  madly,  out  of  his  guilelessness,  spoken 
of  the  temporary  haven  of  a  convent.  She  had  not  deigned 
to  answer  either  suggestion  but  by  the  smile  that  withered 
speech. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you  I'm  here  at  your  orders?"  he  said 
now,  hoarsely. 

"Thank  you." 

245 


NEW  WINE 

The  scents  of  all  the  breaking  blossoms  were  in  the  air ; 
indefinable  essences  of  green  leaf  and  sticky  bud,  mingled 
with  the  hot  incense  of  the  pines  in  the  sunshine,  subtly 
permeated  with  the  wholesome  salt  of  the  sea. 

"Are  not  those  the  bulldogs  on  the  terrace?"  she  said. 
"Yes,  and  there  is  Isobel." 

"Isobel?" 

"I  suppose  you  would  not  know  her  by  that  name. 
Lady  Kenneth." 

Shane  frowned,  struck  by  a  shaft  of  strange  memory. 
That  painted  woman  had  once  spoken  to  him  with  the 
voice  of  his  guardian  angel,  and  he  had  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"What,  still  here?"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  "It's  the 
long  visit  she's  paying." 

"She  amuses  Sir  Timothy."  There  was  not  an  inflec^ 
tion  in  the  silken  accents.  "Your  friend  Mr.  Blythe  is 
here  too.  He  asked  to  come  back." 

Shane's  frown  deepened.  Blythe  was  the  last  person 
he  desired  to  meet  in  the  circumstances.  She  explained, 
into  his  fierce  silence : 

"He  said  he  was  anxious  about  you.  He  told  me  he  was 
sure  that  you  were  up  to  something  with  that  yacht.  He 
had  lost  sight  of  you  at  Glasgow,  but  heard  you  were  in 
these  waters.  He  thinks  it  his  duty  to  look  after  you, 
Lord  Kilmore.  He  will  be  delighted  to  have  you  handed 
over  to  him — and  you  can  gratify  him  by  indulging  him 
in  a  cruise." 

She  did  not  even  glance  at  him  to  see  how  her  thrusts 
struck  home. 

"If  it's  counting  on  a  cruise  with  me —  Shane  be- 

gan, with  boyish  heat.     But  she  interrupted. 

246 


HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

"It  is  Timothy.  Timothy  with  Lady  Kenneth.  Will 
you  shout,  if  you  please,  to  attract  their  attention?" 

Shane  hesitated.  But  it  was  only  for  a  second.  She 
had  the  courage  of  the  devil;  he  would  be  the  poor  thing 
if  he  were  behindhand.  He  raised  his  lusty  voice  in  a 
ringing  call,  such  as  that  which  had  many  a  time  echoed 
over  the  stony  fields  of  Clare  when  he  rounded  in  the  wild 
colts. 

Sir  Timothy  was  clad  in  white  flannels,  and  his  Henry 
VIII  outline  was  very  conspicuous  beside  Lady  Kenneth's 
green  jumper,  in  the  broad  sunshine  of  the  terrace.  Shane 
could  see  how  the  two  started,  turned,  and  stared.  And, 
once  again,  this  time  with  a  certain  exhilaration  in  his 
Irish  fighting  blood,  he  defiantly  flung  out  his  strange 
cry. 

"Hallo ! — hallo !"  Lady  Kenneth  answered  shrilly.  From 
Sir  Timothy  came  no  answer  at  all.  The  huge  white  form 
could  be  seen  descending  the  terrace  steps — not  quickly, 
yet  with  an  air  of  such  marked  purpose  that  it  invested 
with  omen  his  silence.  The  bulldogs  preceded  him,  full 
of  slobbering  recognition.  There  was  no  bulldog  amia- 
bility on  Sir  Timothy's  countenance.  His  great  jaw  was 
set  with  a  grimness  that  gave  him  altogether  a  new  as- 
pect. Shane  braced  himself:  he  recognized  menace  in  the 
very  breath  that,  bull-like,  the  man  blew  down  his  nostrils. 

Lady  Kenneth  began  to  rattle  out  inconsequent  remarks 
the  moment  they  came  within  speaking  distance. 

"Hallo,  hallo — dear  Vee,  you  have  stolen  a  march  on 
us — what  have  you  been  up  to?  Fancy  you  slipping  off 
in  the  dawn !  Your  maids  nearly  had  fits.  And,  oh,  Lord 
Kilmore,  your  little  keeper  is  nearly  out  of  his  mind  about 
you !  Fancy  you  both  turning  up  together !  This  is  a 

247 


NEW  WINE 

surprise — isn't  it,  Tim?  Tim  got  a  fright,  too,  poor  old 
Tiny !  You  know  you  did.  Thought  you  were  drowned, 
Vee,  or  something,  I  dare  say.  I  knew  you'd  be  all  right. 
I  said  so.  Didn't  I,  Tiny?" 

"I  am  all  right,"  said  Lady  Hobson.  "Lord  Kilmore 
took  very  good  care  of  me.  Would  you  mind  taking  my 
cloak  and  bag  from  him,  Timothy?  Lord  Kilmore,  I 
understand,  wishes  to  get  back  to  his  yacht." 

Eye  to  eye,  the  two  men  stood,  and  with  a  growl  that 
issued  from  the  deepest  corner  of  his  chest:  "The  devil 
he  does,"  said  Timothy. 

"Not  at  all,"  cried  Shane  promptly,  "if  you  might  be 
wanting  a  word  with  me." 

"Please,  Timothy,"  said  Venetia,  "do  relieve  Lord  Kil- 
more of  my  things.  Yes,  Isobel,  I've  had  the  first  cruise 
on  Lord  Kilmore's  yacht.  Yes,  I  have  stolen  a  march 
on" you  all,  as  you  say,  but  you  know  I  always  said  yacht- 
ing was  an  overrated  pleasure.  I  think  so  more  than  ever 
now.  Lord  Kilmore  wanted  me  to  stay  for  lunch,  but  I 
made  him  bring  me  back." 

"You  went  quite  far  enough,  it  seems  to  me,  my  lady," 
her  husband  turned  on  her  with  a  snarl. 

She  fixed  him  steadily,  then  said,  in  a  voice  of  sweetest 
emphasis : — 

"Not  so  far,  Timothy,  as  you  went  with  Isobel  in  the 
launch  the  other  day." 

The  big  man  rolled  his  eyes,  grew  purple,  spluttered. 
Then  he  stretched  out  his  hairy  hand  and  snatched  his 
wife's  belongings  from  Shane.  Lady  Kenneth  was  laugh- 
ing uproariously. 

"Vee,  you  are  priceless !  She  had  you  there,  Tiny.  But 

248 


HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

we  did  not  go  off  on  the  sly,  you  know — without  telling 
any  one." 

"Why  should  I  have  told  any  one — any  of  you?" 

"Why?"  Sir  Timothy  and  Lady  Kenneth  exchanged 
a  look. 

"You're  not  given  to  paying  much  attention  to  me, 
either  of  you,  are  you?"  She  was  standing  on  firm  ground 
now,  and  knew  it.  Her  smile  spread  from  ironic  lips  to 
half-closed  eyes. 

"Did  you  take  your  jewel-case  on  board  with  you,  Vee, 
darling?"  Lady  Kenneth's  temper,  never  very  well  under 
control,  was  escaping  her. 

"Yes." 

"How  odd!" 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

To  attempt  to  explain  what  obviously  cannot  bear 
explanation  was  a  mistake  into  which  Venetia  Hobson 
was  not  likely  to  fall.  She  turned  her  slow,  beautiful  eyes 
from  Lady  Kenneth's  face,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
Shane. 

"Good-by.  Thank  you  so  much,  Lord  Kilmore.  It  has 
been  quite  a  little  experience.  But  do  not  think  me  un- 
grateful if  I  say  that  I  didn't  enjoy  it.  I  assure  you  I 
am  not  ungrateful." 

Shane  could  hardly  bear  the  touch  of  the  frail  gloved 
hand.  Sir  Timothy  gave  an  unexpected  guffaw.  His 
prominent  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  consort,  full  of  the  reluc- 
tant admiration  with  which  he  would  now  and  again  con- 
template her. 

"I'll  be  hanged  if  you're  not  as  clever  as  they  make 
?em,  my  lady!"  he  remarked.  His  tone  was  not  devoid  of 
sarcasm,  yet  there  was  resignation  in  it  too.  Then  he 

249 


NEW  WINE 

shifted  his  glance  to  Shane,  and  laughed  again.  "When 
I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  strikes  me  you're  the  cleverest 
of  the  lot,  young  man.  But  you  don't  expect  me  to  shake 
hands  with  you  and  say  I'm  grateful,  do  you?" 

With  which  cryptic  words  he  turned  his  great  shoulders 
upon  his  whilom  guest  and  began  to  tramp  towards  the 
house,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  left,  nor  seeming 
to  perceive  that,  with  a  swift  movement,  Venetia  had 
placed  herself  by  his  side.  Lady  Kenneth  and  Shane, 
gazing  after  the  two,  saw  her  slip  her  hand  within  his  arm 
as  they  went. 

"Touching  sight!"  cried  the  lady;  there  was  harsh 
discomfiture  in  her  laugh.  She  wheeled  on  Shane.  "Ve- 
netia'd  buy  and  sell  you  and  me.  We  haven't  a  chance 
with  her.  Though,  by  the  way,  how  in  the  name  of  all 
that's  fantastic  did  you  get  her  to  come  back?  You  didn't 
contrive  a  wireless  informing  you  you  had  lost  all  your 
money,  did  you?  Short  of  that — I  say,  you  know,  you 
look  pretty  bad.  I  warned  you,  didn't  I?  What  hap- 
pened? You  might  as  well  unburden  yourself.  It'll  do 
you  good." 

Shane  remained  with  locked  lips.  He  hardly  thought 
Lady  Kenneth's  babble  more  worth  notice  at  that  mo- 
ment than  the  buzzing  of  the  flies  that  circled  about  his 
head.  His  gaze  still  followed  Venetia.  There  she  went, 
taking  with  her  how  much  of  his  honor,  his  manhood,  his 
soul's  integrity,  his  youth's  illusions:  such  irrecoverable 
things!  And  there  he  was  left,  the  meanest  object  the 
world  held,  this  glorious  June  day;  the  lover  who  had 
plucked  a  woman  away  from  the  side  of  her  lawful  owner, 
pluming  himself  of  his  virtue — to  restore  her  promptly, 
on  the  plea  of  the  same  virtue !  Here  he  stood,  spared  by 

250 


HONOR  AMONG  THIEVES 

the  man  he  had  robbed,  because  that  man  at  heart  was  a 
thief  too.  No  one  could  think  him  more  of  a  fool  than 
he  thought  himself.  In  no  eyes  could  he  cut  a  sorriei4 
figure  than  in  his  own. 

With  the  freshening  wind  the  sea  voices  roared  on  the 
beach.  It  was  little  more  than  a  year  ago  that  he  had 
kissed  Moira  up  there,  in  the  cranny  of  the  cliff,  with  the 
first  kisses  of  love.  Moira,  who  had  trusted  him,  who 
would  have  gone  with  him  into  poverty  and  served  him 
as  his  loving  wife  with  all  her  youth  and  strength  and 
beauty,  after  the  fashion  of  the  faithful  Irish  woman,  so 
long  as  life  lasted.  Moira,  to  whom  he  had  been  unfaith- 
ful with  the  meanest  of  all  treacheries — tacit  acceptance 
of  her  renunciation,  hypocritical  shifting  of  the  responsi- 
bility from  his  guilty  shoulders  to  her  strong,  innocent 
ones !  Whatever  had  come  upon  him  now,  he  had  deserved 
it.  The  worst  was  the  thought  that  he  was  not  fit  to  go 
back  to  Moira. 

"Here's  Val!"  Lady  Kenneth  broke  off  her  string  of 
fruitless  questions,  to  shriek  and  wave  her  stick.  "Val! 
Val  Blythe,  come  here,  you'll  have  the  surprise  of  your 
life!" 

Valentine  Blythe  came  running  up  from  the  beach. 
He  looked  extraordinarily  boyish  and  fresh  in  his  suit  of 
light  flannel,  his  hair  rumpled  from  the  sea-water,  his  shirt 
open  at  the  throat. 

"Surprised?  Not  at  all!  I  saw  you  from  my  little 
tent,  dearest  Shane — saw  you  land,  you  know,  from  that 
smart  gig.  Her  ladyship  never  was  a  sailor,  I  could 
have  told  you  that  if  you'd  consulted  me.  But  oh,  my 
dear  boy,  what  a  day  for  a  cruise !  I  could  hardly  dry 
myself  properly,  thinking  you'd  be  off  and  away.  Such 

251 


NEW  WINE 

a  relief  to  see  the  gig  still  at  the  landing-stage.  Your 
Ariadne  looks  too  exquisite  out  yonder  on  the  blue.  You'll 
take  me  on  board,  won't  you?  I'll  not  be  more  than  a 
second  getting  my  little  rags  together." 

"You  are  civil !"  interrupted  Lady  Kenneth.  The  sparkle 
of  mischievous  curiosity  which  had  enlivened  her  face  at 
Blythe's  approach,  went  out.  He  was  going  to  be  as 
stupid  as  Sir  Timothy,  and  "play  the  village  idiot"  to 
the  scandal.  But  Shane  stepped  back.  He  cast  a  single 
glance  at  him  who  had  constituted  himself  the  pioneer  of 
his  new  life — it  was  one  of  intense  repudiation.  At  Lady 
Kenneth  he  did  not  look  at  all;  but  he  included  her  in 
the  words  which  leaped  from  his  mouth: — 

"I'll  have  no  more  to  do  with  any  one  of  you.  I'm  sick 
to  death  of  you  all !  If  yours  are  the  ways  of  gentry,  it's 
the  Irish  peasant  I'd  choose  to  be  all  my  life." 

Blythe  whistled  softly,  as  Shane  wheeled  and  strode 
away. 

"You  can't  say  you  made  much  of  your  clay,  genius  as 
you  are!"  jeered  Lady  Kenneth.  She  was  in  a  towering 
rage. 

For  once  Mr.  Blythe  was  nonplussed.  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  spread  out  his  bands.  At  last  he  said, 
with  a  forced  revival  of  sprightliness : — 

"Dear  Venetia  ought  to  have  a  funny  little  tale  to  tell 
us." 

"She'll  never  tell  it  then."  Lady  Kenneth  viciously 
dug  her  stick  into  the  soft  earth. 


X 

"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

NOT  so  had  Shane  pictured  his  return  to  Clenane.  Even 
when  the  new  interests  had  laid  their  utmost  hold  upon 
him;  even  when  he  believed  that  he  had  met,  over  there 
in  England,  the  destined  love  and  pity  of  his  life,  there 
had  always  been  at  the  back  of  his  mind  the  certainty  that 
he  would  one  day  find  his  way  home.  Clenane  remained 
home  through  everything,  and  there  had  been  through 
everything  the  yearnings  as  of  the  exile  for  his  own.  He 
had  first  seen  himself  in  fancy  the  very  fine  fellow,  the 
rich  and  powerful  young  nobleman,  kind  comrade  to  his 
old  friends ;  he  had  seen  himself  the  restorer  of  the  glories 
of  Kilmore;  the  benefactor,  the  wise,  the  enlightened,  the 
popular  landlord  of  those  whose  forebears  had  been  his 
ancestors'  own  people — Kilmore  come  back  to  the  land 
of  his  sires !  It  was  a  picture  full  of  generous  colors  that 
did  not  exclude  the  roses  of  joy  in  Moira's  face  when  she 
found  her  lover  true  to  her  after  all. 

Then  the  scene  had  shifted,  as  when  a  child  shakes  the 
kaleidoscope.  The  pattern,  the  tints,  all  were  changed. 
The  design  caught  moonlit  hues.  Visions,  intangible, 
poetic,  took  the  place  of  the  crude,  childlike  plans ;  he  saw 
the  old  walls  of  the  castle  rising  strong  and  gray  over  the 
sea,  fit  habitation  for  the  wonderful  new  Lady  Kilmore,  for 
Venetia — poem  come  true — trailing  her  delicate  draperies 

253 


NEW  WINE 

through  his  halls,  angel  of  mercy  to  his  poor,  sweet,  re- 
conciliated  sinner,  praying  before  his  restored  altar. 

In  these  ethereal  imaginings  there  had  been  no  place 
for  Moira.  But  it  was  Moira  who  now  held  the  whole  of 
his  mind  during  long  days  when,  desultorily  cruising  off 
the  coast  of  his  own  country,  he  hesitated  upon  the 
thought  of  landing.  Where  was  he  to  go,  what  was  he 
to  do  if  he  did  not  go  back  to  Clenane? 

Clenane  was  like  a  milestone  on  a  dark,  unknown  road, 
it  shone  out  of  the  gloom  at  him,  that  was  all.  In  the 
end,  like  the  weary  traveler,  he  made  for  the  glimmer,  not 
knowing  whither  it  might  point,  or  whether  even  he  could 
rest  beside  it. 

The  dusk  of  the  mid-June  evening  was  gathering  close 
when  he  rowed  himself  from  the  yacht  to  the  shore.  He 
knew  every  inlet,  projection,  and  curve  of  the  cliff -guarded 
coast;  he  knew  just  where  to  draw  in  the  dinghy,  where 
he  would  drag  her  up  on  the  shingle  under  the  shadow  of 
the  cliff. 

It  was  a  mild  night,  and  the  western  sky,  still  faintly 
glowing,  showed  stretches  of  lambent  green.  A  single 
star  shone  primrose.  Above  his  head  the  twilight  depths 
were  gray-blue,  as  yet  unpierced.  The  waves  washed 
gently  on  the  beach  behind  him,  he  heard  the  old  melan- 
choly draw  of  the  backwash,  the  well-remembered  sudden 
boom  and  slap  of  the  mounting  tide  in  the  hidden  caves. 
The  airs  that  smote  his  forehead  and  met  his  nostrils  were 
infinitely  soft  and  full  of  the  tang  of  the  seaweed,  with 
now  and  then,  as  he  mounted  and  the  land  breeze  blew, 
a  whiff  of  turf-smoke. 

He  heard  the  voices  of  children  down  in  the  village, 
and  the  sudden  cry  of  a  startled  sea-bird,  as  a  loose  stone 

254 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

fell  clattering  beneath  his  tread.  Far  away,  somewhere 
from  Galway  side,  came  faintly  the  melancholy  hoot  of  a 
steamer  calling  out  across  the  waste  of  waters.  Here 
was  the  cleft  in  the  rock,  where  Moira  and  he  had  come 
together ;  where  they  had  kissed  farewell.  He  stared  back 
upon  the  great  Atlantic.  There  were  phosphorescent 
gleams  and  odd  radiances  where  the  rollers  raced  in  and, 
foaming,  broke ;  there  was  a  wonderful  streak  of  reflected 
green  far  out;  for  the  rest,  sea  and  sky  seemed  to  look 
upon  each  other  with  the  same  face  of  gray  mystery. 

Shane  inhaled  the  spirit  of  his  childhood's  home  with 
a  long  breath  and  a  sense  as  of  inner  tears.  A  few  more 
steps  brought  him  to  the  landward  slope ;  and  before  him 
rose  the  gray  walls  of  his  own  ruin.  No  smoke  from  the 
housheen  to  show  that  the  old  place  yet  had  life ;  no  glim- 
mer of  light  from  the  window  to  beckon  him  through  the 
broken  archway.  He  had  known  it  must  be  so ;  but  to 
see  it  hurt  him.  He  had  been  very  happy  there ;  now  the 
hearth  was  cold.  No  smoke  either  from  Biddy  M'Gaw's 
hovel.  He  could  see  the  shapeless  excrescence  black 
against  the  pale  flank  of  the  rock,  with  a  jagged  bit  where 
the  thatch  had  fallen  away  from  the  roof.  Dead — or 
gone  to  the  poor-house — what  had  happened  to  old  Biddy? 

The  melancholy  which  possessed  him  had  had,  up  to 
this,  something  of  the  gentle,  sad  placidity  of  the  sum- 
mer night.  But  now  apprehension  began  to  stir.  Who 
else  was  dead?  What  else  had  changed?  What  other 
hearths  were  cold  where  he  remembered  fires?  Much 
might  have  happened  in  Clenane  these  months  and  months 
of  absence  which  he  had  never  even  thought  of  bridging 
by  a  letter. 

Here  was  the  gap ;  and  the  square  of  the  priest's  house, 

255 


NEW  WINE 

cut  like  cardboard  against  the  sky-line.  Thank  God  there 
was  smoke  from  that  chimney !  Yet  Shane  bethought 
himself,  as  he  jumped  the  low,  loose  wall  into  the  potato- 
patch,  that  the  house  of  the  priest  could  never  be  empty 
in  Ireland.  If  he  were  to  find  a  stranger  here,  then  the 
light  of  his  first  hope  in  homecoming  would  have  been 
blown  out  like  the  flame  of  a  candle  in  a  sudden  blast. 

The  gate  was  tied  up  with  string,  just  where  it  used 
to  be,  and  it  swung  back  with  the  old  creak  on  its  broken 
hinge.  The  bell  had  not  been  mended  either.  He 
knocked — those  three  taps  with  which  he  had,  from  the 
time  that  he  could  walk  at  all,  demanded  entrance  to  his 
guardian's  house.  A  shuffling  step  in  the  passage,  the 
beat  of  a  stick,  a  bent  figure,  large  and  black  in  the  door- 
way, and  a  crest  of  white  hair,  caught  in  silver  by  the  light 
of  the  small  paraffin  lamp,  smelling  triumphantly  as  of 
old,  from  its  bracket  on  the  discolored  wall.  Fate  was 
benign ;  it  was  his  old  friend  in  person. 

"Father— it's  I,  Father  Blake.     It's  Shane!" 

The  old  man  peered  as  if  to  ascertain  for  himself.  Then 
repeating  the  name,  "Shane!"  in  surprise,  but  with  no  sign 
of  pleasure,  he  bade  the  visitor  come  in. 

Before  Shane  could  obey,  before  he  had  time  to  grapple 
with  his  sense  of  a  sharp  disappointment,  something  came 
hurtling  along  the  narrow  passage  and  flung  itself  against 
his  breast,  crying  with  an  almost  human  voice.  It  was 
Leprechaun. 

Shane  staggered,  shouted,  laughed;  but  the  next  mo- 
ment disquietude  seized  him.  Leprechaun — Moira  had 
promised  that  the  dog  should  never  leave  her !  Then  from 
the  first  thought  sprang  another,  disquieting  too,  yet  shot 
as  with  trembling  tints  of  gold:  Moira,  was  she  within? 

256 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

Did  this  explain  the  priest's  strange,  cold  look  at  him,  and 
the  hesitation  in  his  voice? 

"You'd  best  be  coming  in,"  said  Father  Blake.  "Down, 
Leprechaun,  down,  sir — ah,  it's  the  faithful  heart  the 
beasts  have !  You'd  best  be  coming  in,  whatever  brings 
you."  He  paused,  almost  his  lips  formed  the  words, 
"Lord  Kilmore."  But,  with  a  faint  smile,  he  changed 
them  for  the  once  familiar  name.  "My  old  tongue,"  he 
said,  "cannot  be  bringing  itself  to  it.  You'll  forgive  me, 
if  it's  Shane  you  are  still  to  me." 

"I'd  not  forgive,  if  it  was  the  other  way." 

Shane  strove  to  speak  cheerily,  but  he  felt  bewildered, 
numbed;  and  his  heart  beat  in  his  throat  at  the  thought 
that  perhaps,  in  there,  in  the  shabby  parlor,  Moira  might 
be  standing,  listening,  waiting.  What  if  she,  too,  were 
to  turn  and  look  at  him  with  alien  eyes? 

With  whines  of  passionate  joy  Leprechaun  mumbled 
and  licked  and  fawned  upon  the  hand  unconsciously 
stretched  out  to  him,  as  his  master,  obeying  the  gesture 
of  Father  Blake's  stick,  pushed  against  the  half-open  door 
and  entered  the  priest's  parlor. 

The  room  was  empty.  It  seemed  unusually  forlorn 
by  the  light  of  a  solitary  candle. 

Father  Blake  shuffled  in  and  closed  the  door  behind 
him.  He  stood,  leaning  on  his  blackthorn,  staring  at 
Shane  with  piercing  scrutiny  from  under  the  bushy  eye- 
brows ;  the  singular  luminosity  of  his  gaze  was  undimmed, 
but  the  countenance  was  greatly  aged.  He  looked  sad 
and  ill.  Shane  sought  in  vain  for  a  word;  so  many 
months  of  silence,  so  much  unpardonable  thanklessness, 
such  emancipation  from  old  ties,  reared  themselves  be- 
tween him  and  his  childhood's  friends.  After  a  pause 

257 


NEW  WINE 

which  weighed  like  a  stone  upon  his  soul,  he  heard  Father 
Blake  say,  in  accents  of  frigid  courtesy: — 

"Will  you  take  a  seat?"  The  priest  came  forward 
slowly.  "Me  foot's  troublesome.  You'll  maybe  remem- 
ber the  way  I  used  to  be.  I'll  not  be  likely  to  get 
stronger."  Again  there  was  the  faint,  cold  smile. 
"Mary's  had  to  go  to  nurse  her  niece,  the  creature,  up 
at  Kilcurran.  She  took  bad  on  Saturday — so  I'm  alone, 
though  Nellie  Dooley  does  be  looking  in  on  me,  whenever 
she  can,  the  good  child.  Could  I  be  offering  you  any- 
thing?" 

"Nothing,  nothing  at  all — it  was  only  to  see  you.  I 
had  dinner  on  the  yacht — thank  you  kindly." 

"The  yacht."  Father  Blake  let  himself  sink  into  the 
cushions  of  the  wooden  arm-chair,  stretching  out  his  foot 
with  a  suppressed  groan.  Shane  could  almost  have  be- 
lieved himself  back  in  the  days  before  fortune  had  come 
to  him,  bringing  such  piercing  shafts  of  misfortune — 
everything  about  him  was  so  familiar. 

"The  yacht — ay,  I  saw  the  fine  yacht  in  the  sunshine, 
cruising  about  the  bay,  this  afternoon.  And  so  it'll  be 
yours  ?" 

"Ay,"  said  Shane  in  his  turn,  and  flushed.  He  bent 
over  Leprechaun,  hugging  him.  They  were  sitting  each 
side  of  the  cold  hearth.  The  remains  of  a  very  frugal 
meal — the  corner  of  a  loaf,  an  empty  eggshell,  and  a 
black  tea-pot — stood  on  the  table.  Where,  in  the  name 
of  God,  was  Moira? 

"So  you've  come  back  to  Clenane — in  your  grand 
yacht.  And  what  brings  you  ?" 

Shane  straightened  himself. 

258 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

"Ah,  father,"  he  cried  boyishly,  "you're  wondering 
why  I  did  not  come  before." 

"I'm  wondering  why  you've  come  at  all." 

"That's  a  strange  question."  Shane  still  tried  to  rally 
the  old  man  from  his  stern  aloofness.  "Why  wouldn't 
I  be  wanting  to  come  back  to  my  friends?" 

Father  Blake  did  not  answer.  He  was  still  fixing  his 
visitor  with  searching  eyes;  melancholy  had  not  lifted 
from  his  countenance,  his  mouth  with  its  jutting  chin 
worked. 

"How  is  it  with  you  all?"  pursued  the  young  man. 

"It  was  always  a  poor  place  here,"  answered  the  priest 
distantly,  "and  the  winter  that's  gone  by  has  been  hard. 
But  there's  some  that  have  done  with  the  struggle." 

"Is  Biddy  M'Gaw  gone?"  put  in  Shane.  "I  saw  the 
thatch  down  on  her  little  house  as  I  went  by." 

"The  doctor  got  her  out  of  that  the  long  while  since; 
but  sure  it  was  the  end  of  her;  she  died  in  the  infirmary 
next  day.  May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her!" 

"Oh,  poor  old  Biddy!" 

Father  '31ake  passed  over  the  ejaculation  of  pity  in 
silence.  "Honor  is  out  of  the  road,  too,"  he  went  on 
relentlessly. 

"Honor  M'Keown — my  own  good  Honor !    Not  dead  ?" 

"And  indeed  it's  dead  she  wished  herself,  many  a  time, 
with  the  cruelty  of  the  world,  driving  her  and  her  chil- 
dren !  Sold  up  she  was,  the  creature.  It's  the  hard  man 
that  Conran  always  was." 

"Conran,  the  grocer?" 

"Who  else?  And  him  encouraging  them  to  run  up  the 
long  bills,  and  the  poor  creatures  not  knowing  which  way 
they  stand  with  him  at  all.  Och,  it's  the  rich  man  he's 

259 


NEW  WINE 

growing  on  the  hearts  of  the  mothers  and  the  hunger  of 
the  children!  Honor,  with  her  nice  little  place  and  a 
beautiful  pig,  and  all  her  grand  little  hens,  didn't  he 
choose  the  right  moment  to  sell  her  up,  and  sure  what 
could  she  do,  the  creature?  Thirty-seven  pounds  nine 
shillings  he  made  up  against  her,  and  how  could  she  tell 
whether  it  was  owing  or  not,  the  way  he'd  have  her  and 
all  the  rest  running  in  with  a  pound  note  here  and  a 
pound  note  there  at  odd  times,  and  they  drawing  the  tea 
and  the  sugar  and  the  bacon  and  the  jam,  every  day, 
you  may  say,  without  as  much  as  asking  the  price.  The 
moment  you  were  out  of  the  road,  he  had  her  marked. 
But  he  bided  his  time  till  the  pig  was  fat  on  her." 

Shane's  color  had  changed  more  than  once  during  this 
recital.  He  fixed  Father  Blake  with  widening  gaze,  like 
that  of  a  frightened  child. 

"And  not  one  of  you  would  have  the  charity  to  let  me 
know." 

The  priest  flung  him  a  swift  look,  and  cast  down  his 
eyes.  Then  Shane,  remembering  the  unopened  letters, 
felt  a  cold  sweat  break  upon  his  forehead.  Had  they 
contained  poor  Honor's  appeals,  those  envelopes  scrawled 
to  "Master  Shane,  the  Lord  Earl  of  Kilmore,"  that  he 
had  flung  from  him  into  the  holocaust? 

"I  never  knew,"  he  stammered,  "how  could  I  know? 
You  might  have  written  yourself." 

And  still  Father  Blake  said  nothing,  and  his  silence 
condemned,  with  a  sternness  beyond  speech. 

"Where  is  she  now?  What  became  of  them?  I'll  buy 
back  her  little  place  for  her — where  is  she  now?"  he  re- 
peated irritably. 

"Mrs.  Dinny  Doyle  took  in  one  of  the  little  boys — 

260 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

it's  the  good  heart  she  has,  when  all  is  said  and  done. 
She  took  him  in  place  of  her  own  little  fellow  that  died 
of  the  croup  before  Christmas.  And  Honor  has  got  work 
at  Captain  Joyce's,  minding  chickens.  The  doctor  got 
her  the  job — and  he  and  myself,  we  put  the  other  gos- 
soon at  the  Christian  Brothers.  It's  heartbroken  she  is 
to  be  parted  from  them,  her  that  has  always  kept  them 
so  decent." 

"I'll  give  them  back  to  her.  I'll  see  that  she  has  a 
house  of  her  own  again." 

"She  wrote  and  asked  you  for  the  loan  of  the  stone 
cottage  up  in  the  ruins.  Twice  she  wrote." 

It  was  Shane's  turn  to  keep  silence — a  silence  acrid 
with  self-reproach  and  mortification.  After  a  while 
Father  Blake  pursued ;  a  certain  rueful  whimsicality  play- 
ing over  the  wrinkled  face. 

"The  widow  Dooley's  made  a  match  of  it  with  Tom 
Clancy." 

Shane  gave  a  forlorn  laugh. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  of  something  cheerful." 

"Cheerful  is  it?  It's  the  worst  thing  she  ever  did  in 
her  life.  It's  drinking  her  out  of  house  and  home  he  is. 
And,  sure  she  daren't  trust  him  with  the  car  at  all.  I'm 
looking  out  for  a  place  for  Nellie  this  moment.  Dooley's 
not  fit  for  her  now." 

Shane,  pulling  Leprechaun's  ear,  to  the  ecstatic  con- 
tent of  the  dog,  abandoned  himself  to  the  dreary  sense  of 
disillusion  which,  like  creeping  waters,  was  invading  his 
soul.  How  he  had  been  yearning  for  Clenane,  and  the 
old,  clean,  wholesome,  simple  life !  Was  there  nothing 
but  sordidness  everywhere?" 

"I'd  be  missing  Nellie  Dooley,"  the  priest  was  saying. 

261 


NEW  WINE 

Here  the  thought  that  was  uppermost  in  the  visitor's 
.mind  found  expression  at  last. 

"Where's  Moira?" 

Father  Blake  frowned.  "You'll  not  find  her  in  Cle- 
nane." 

"Not  find  her! — where  is  she?" 

"Shane,"  said  Father  Blake,  "if  it's  for  Moira  you've 
come  back  here,  you  may  as  well  take  it  from  me  she 
wouldn't  want  to  see  you." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"She's  with  the  nuns." 

"With  the  nuns !"  The  young  man  repeated  the  words 
in  such  a  tone  of  anguish  and  horror,  that  once  again  a 
smile  hovered  on  Father  Blake's  lips. 

"I'm  not  saying  she's  going  to  be  a  nun — and  I'm  not 
saying  she  won't  end  by  being  a  nun.  She  is  at  the  con- 
vent; and  she  is  happy  there,  and  doing  good  work  teach- 
ing in  the  infant  school.  It's  better  that  way.  She 
couldn't  settle  here  at  all,  the  poor  child,  what  with  Dan 
Blake  and  the  way  he  was  about  you  and  her;  and  Clery 
after  her,  and  the  talk  about  you  both." 

Shane  was  still  drawing  one  of  Leprechaun's  tangled 
silken  ears  through  his  fingers. 

"And  that's  why  she  got  rid  of  this  poor  fellow!"  he 
exclaimed  bitterly,  "she  that  said  she'd  not  let  him  go 
from  her." 

Father  Blake's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  moving  hand; 
there  was  a  grand  seal  ring  on  it,  such  as  gentlemen  wear. 

"It  would  be  queer  for  you  to  be  blaming  Moira  for 
breaking  a  promise,"  he  began.  And  then,  dropping 
querulous  heat  for  the  former  coldly  measured  accents, 
"It  would  have  been  hard  for  the  child  to  be  able  to  keep 

262 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

him,"  he  went  on.  "Didn't  she  take  him  with  her,  and 
didn't  he  run  away  on  her  every  while,  and  we  to  be  find- 
ing him  time  and  again  outside  your  little  old  place  up  in 
the  ruins.  Ah,  it's  the  beasts  that  have  the  faithful 
hearts !  Though  other  than  beasts  have  them  too — for 
their  sorrow — sometimes.  What  could  I  do  but  take  him 
in  myself,  the  poor  fellow,  and  him  the  livelong  day  lis- 
tening and  waiting  for  you?  Ton  my  word,"  said  Father 
Blake,  warming  in  his  theme,  "I  believe  he  knew  you  were 
on  the  road  here  this  evening,  he  was  that  uneasy.  You'll 
have  to  take  him  away  with  you  now,  or  he'll  never  set- 
tle." 

"What  makes  you  think  I  want  to  be  going  away?" 

"What  would  you  be  doing  here?" 

"It  would  be  a  poor  thing  if  it  was  only  the  dog  that's 
glad  to  see  me  back.  Perhaps  my  other  old  friends  won't 
be  feeling  like  yourself!"  Shane  broke  out  petulantly  at 
last  from  his  sore  heart.  "I've  a  good  mind  to  go  round 
to  the  doctor  this  minute." 

"Doctor?  You  won't  find  him.  He's  set  off  in  his 
trap  to  see  what  he  could  do  for  poor  Mary's  niece  at 
Kilcurran.  May  the  Lord  reward  him !  It's  little  opin- 
ion Doctor  Molloy  has  of  you  this  moment,  and  you  may 
as  well  know  it,  for  I'm  doubting  whether  a  meeting  with 
him  would  be  altogether  agreeable  to  you.  And  any- 
how you  can't  be  staying  in  Clenane,  with  the  two  Blake 
boys  wild  to  have  the  beating  of  you — let  alone  Dan " 

Shane  interrupted  with  an  ej  aculation ;  but  the  priest 
lifted  his  hand. 

"Whisht — you're  a  match  for  the  two  of  them,  I  dare 
say,  and  the  old  man  as  well,  but  you  couldn't  be  fight- 
ing him  that  was  once  as  good  as  your  own  Da,  and  them 

263 


NEW  WINE 

as  were  as  your  brothers,  the  sons  of  Mammy  Blake,  as 
you  used  to  call  her — and  breaking  Moira's  heart  out  and 
out." 

"Father " 

The  tears  rushed  to  Shane's  eyes.  His  voice  broke  in 
the  cry  of  appeal.  The  old  priest's  severity  broke 
too: — 

"My  poor  child " 

"Where,  in  the  world,  am  I  to  go  to,  and  what,  in  the 
world,  is  to  become  of  me?" 

"You,  in  all  your  grandeur!  With  your  grand 
friends " 

"My  grand  friends — it  doesn't  seem  as  if  I  had  a  friend 
in  the  world  now!" 

"And  what  has  made  you  think  of  us  again,  all  in  a 
hurry?" 

"Father,  I  was  near  losing  my  soul  among  them." 

Father  Blake  shot  a  startled  look;  then  he  folded  the 
old  hands  that  had  fondled  Shane  in  childhood ;  had 
blessed,  absolved,  and  ministered  to  him  through  so  many 
years  of  life.  "Thanks  be  to  God,"  he  murmured,  "but 
you've  kept  the  faith !" 

"I've  been" — Shane  stammered — "it's  out  of  hell  I've 
come.  And  where  could  I  turn  to,  but  here?" 

Father  Blake  sat  for  a  while  as  if  communing  with 
himself.  The  coarse  candle,  burning  down  with  a  length- 
ening wick,  flung  playing  lights  upon  his  face  and  on 
Shane's.  It  drew  each  strong  countenance  with  deep 
shadows  and  high  relief;  and  it  cast,  too,  fantastic  black 
silhouettes  against  the  wall;  the  priest's,  his  falling  jaw 
out-thrust  and  cockatoo  wisp  of  hair,  and  Shane's,  as  he 

264 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

sat  clutching  the  arms  of  his  high-backed  chair,  with  an 
outline  almost  Egyptian  in  its  rigidity. 

At  last  Father  Blake  sighed ;  leaning  his  elbow  on  the 
table  and  his  white  head  upon  his  hand,  he  said  compas- 
sionately : — 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  my  poor  boy." 

The  attitude,  the  words,  the  accent  with  which  they 
were  spoken,  were,  perhaps  unconsciously,  those  of  the 
priest  in  the  confessional  to  his  penitent.  And  it  was  as 
if  he  were  actually  unburdening  his  conscience  that  Shane 
burst  into  speech. 

It  was  a  strange,  confused  story.  He  was  not,  at  the 
best  of  times,  good  at  expressing  himself,  and  he  knew 
as  little  of  introspection  as  any  thinking  man  may. 
Nevertheless,  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  open  his  heart 
without  also  laying  bare  motives;  without  explaining 
how,  from  the  first  moment  that  he  had  seen  the  picture 
in  the  Academy,  he  had  been  attracted ;  how  he  had  known 
that  she  whom  it  portrayed  was  unhappy.  And  the  un- 
conscious emotion  with  which  he  spoke  of  the  cry  for  help 
that  seemed  to  come  to  him  that  day ;  the  few  broken 
words  in  which  he  tried  and  failed,  to  limn  the  beauty  of 
the  appealing  face.  "I  thought  I'd  never  seen  any  one 
so  lovely — I  thought  she  looked — oh,  I  can't  tell  you — 
like  a  kind  of  flower  in  the  wind" — these  betrayed  more, 
perhaps,  of  Shane  than  Shane  himself  knew. 

Father  Blake  groaned  slightly,  and  stretched  out  his 
foot  as  if  it  pained  him.  "Go  on,  me  dear — go  on." 

How  many  a  time  in  childish  days,  when  Shane,  his 
natural  audacity  dashed  by  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion, 
had  halted  over  some  especially  outrageous  peccadillo, 

265 


NEW  WINE 

had  he  not  heard  that  encouragement  dropped  in  the  self- 
same resigned  tone? 

The  listener's  attention  deepened  as  the  narrative  pro- 
ceeded. Shane  entangled  himself,  harked  back,  leaped 
forward,  came  now  and  again  to  an  abrupt  standstill; 
fell,  too,  into  silences  that  were  perhaps  more  pregnant 
of  meaning  than  his  most  fervent  utterance.  Sometimes 
he  paused,  expecting  comment,  some  show  of  surprise,  as 
when — and  every  Irishman  is  unconsciously  dramatic — 
he  came  to  the  discovery  of  Venetia's  religion. 

"I  had  set  her  so  high.  It  was  the  star  she  was  to  me. 
And  to  find  out — God  help  me !  It  was  then  I  knew  what 
love  meant !  My  heart  was  wrung  over  her." 

But  the  priest  never  moved  from  his  intent  attitude ; 
and  Shane  waited  in  vain  for  a  word  or  even  a  sign.  Pas- 
sion dropped  away  from  his  accents,  as  he  took  up  the 
thread  again  with  an  effort.  In  short  sentences  the  ro- 
mance of  rescue  that  had  ended  in  such  sordid  tragedy, 
such  an  infinitely  mean  anticlimax,  was  somehow  put  into 
words.  And  then,  living  back  his  own  hour  of  shame 
and  fierce  revulsion  of  feeling,  Shane  uttered  the  inner- 
most yearning  of  his  heart  in  a  cry : — 

"Moira — to  see  Moira,  it  would  be  to  believe  in  a 
woman  again — in  woman's  goodness !" 

"Moira "  Father  Blake  started,  and  supporting 

himself  with  both  hands  on  the  table,  turned  a  leonine 
countenance  of  majestic  wrath.  "Is  it  out  of  all  your 
sin  and  misery  you  think  you  can  be  laying  hold  of  the 
good  girl  that — that  wasn't  good  enough  for  you?  Is  it 
shadowing  her  pure,  innocent  mind  you  want  to  be  with 
the  black  trouble  that's  on  your  own?  I  haven't  had 
cause  to  think  well  of  you,  my  poor  child" — the  voice  of 

266 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

indignation  sank  to  tremulous  pity — "but  I  think  bet- 
ter of  you  than  that." 

"Why,  father?"  Shane  stared,  first  affronted,  then  in 
his  turn  compassionate.  "The  poor  old  man,"  he 
thought,  "it's  getting  too  old  he  is  altogether.  His 
brain's  wandering.  Sin,  father?"  he  repeated,  "my  sin!" 

The  priest's  eyes  were  fixing  him  with  a  mystic  flame. 
There  was  no  senility  in  that  gaze:  it  searched  and  re- 
vealed. 

"Sin,  child !  Isn't  it  sin  in  a  good  Catholic  young  man 
to  be  giving  himself  to  thoughts  of  love  for  a  married 
woman  ?  To  be  seeking  her  out — whisht !"  Up  went  the 
trembling  hand  authoritatively.  "You  thought  she  was 
married.  How  could  you  believe  that  God  was  in  it 
with  you  when  you  went  on,  from  the  beginning,  with 
that  in  your  heart?  And  when  you  planned  to  be  carry- 
ing her  off — the  poor  lost  soul! — wasn't  it  just  the  easy 
solution  for  you — for  you  both,  in  your  own  mind?  The 
condoning  of  feelings  that  were  wrong  to  start  with?  The 
cloak  of  a  good  deed  that  you  were  flinging  over  a  bad 
one?  Wait  a  bit,  let  me  finish!  It's  little  you  thought 
of  her,,  the  way  you  carried  it  through.  You  had  a  right 
anyhow  to  make  sure  if  you  could  marry  her,  and  how. 
For  there's  the  law  of  the  land  against  the  law  of  the 
Church,  and  you'd  have  been  asking  the  priest  to  break 
the  law  of  the  land.  Ah,  that's  no  way  to  be  saving  a 
soul.  It  wasn't  saving  a  soul  you  were  after,  Shane,  my 
unfortunate  boy,  it  was  gratifying  your  passion.  And, 
praise  be  to  God,  thanks  be  to  his  Holy  Mother,  through 
the  prayers  of  your  own  sweet  mother  who  loved  the  faith, 
you  were  snatched  from  the  pit.  It's  a  fine  scorching 
your  poor  soul  got,  but  if  the  fire  had  once  laid  hold  of 

267 


NEW  WINE 

you!  Oh,  many  is  the  mass  I  have  offered  for  you,  and 
many  is  the  night  I've  prayed  for  you  and  Moira,  is  there 
ever  a  prayer  she  makes,  the  creature,  that  isn't  for 
you !" 

Father  Blake  groaned,  struck  his  breast,  and  wept. 
Shane  dropped  his  head  into  his  hands ;  and  Leprechaun 
whimpered  as  he  licked  them. 

There  was  a  whirlwind  in  the  young  man's  soul;  and, 
for  the  moment,  nothing  but  bitter  devastation.  He  had 
come  back  to  Clenane,  it  is  true,  in  the  spirit  of  the  prodi- 
gal to  his  father's  house,  but  nevertheless  conscious  that 
he  was  the  prodigal  in  power,  clothed  already  in  purple 
and  fine  linen,  returning  with  both  hands  full  of  gold,  to 
a  house  poor  in  all  save  peace.  But  Clenane  would  have 
none  of  him,  and  he  was  rejected  of  all,  but  the  dog.  It 
did  not  take  long,  however,  for  the  storm  to  subside.  He 
had  not  outlearned  the  lessons  of  his  faith;  he  felt  him- 
self, with  humility,  not  that  fine  young  man,  Lord  Kil- 
more,  in  the  presence  of  an  inferior,  but  a  sinner  before 
one  who  had  power  and  knowledge  to  deal  with  his  soul. 

"You're  very  hard  on  me,  father,"  he  exclaimed  at  last, 
looking  up. 

Father  Blake  stretched  out  his  hand  and  laid  a  quiv- 
ering touch  on  him. 

"Don't  say  that,  poor  child.     It's  for  your  own  sake." 

"But  am  I  never  to  see  Moira  again?  Father,  have 
you  forgotten  it  was  you  wouldn't  let  me  marry  her — 
when  I  was  good  and  innocent?"  sighed  poor  Shane. 

"I  thought  it  was  no  marriage  for  you;  but  maybe  I 
was  wrong,  maybe — but  I  did  not  forbid  it  out  and  out. 
I  bid  you  test  yourself  then.  And  now  I  bid  you  test 
yourself  again.  You  were  mighty  unsettled,  that  time; 

268 


"HAVE  YOU  NO  DUTIES?" 

how  do  you  know  what  you'll  be  feeling  in  another  month 
or  so?  If  you  make  yourself  worthy  of  her,  show  your- 
self worthy  of  her,  I'll  say,  in  the  name  of  God.  But  as 
things  are  now — Shane,"  said  the  priest  very  solemnly, 
"that's  the  good  child.  I'll  not  have  the  trouble  brought 
on  her  again,  and  destroy  her  peace  altogether." 

"What  am  I  to  do?" 

"Do?     What'll  you  do?     Have  you  no  duties?" 

"Duties?" 

"Haven't  you  properties  to  look  after,  haven't  you 
got  poor  people  dependent  on  you,  haven't  you  got  re- 
sponsibilities to  fulfill,  with  all  this  wealth  and  power? 
It's  not  yachting  or  keeping  bad  company  that  shall  save 
your  soul,  or  make  a  man  of  yourself — or" — a  smile  here 
suddenly  mitigated  the  severity  of  Father  Blake's  accents 
— "make  you  fit  to  come  back,  and  ask  Moira  to  forgive 
you." 

They  talked  long  together.  And  it  was  a  very  sad 
and  chastened  Shane  who  sought  his  boat  again  in  the 
tranquil  June  night,  and  rowed  himself  back  to  the  Ari- 
adne. After  all,  he  was  taking  some  comfort  away  from 
Clenane,  for  Leprechaun  had  jumped  into  the  dinghy 
after  him.  He  was  not  again  to  be  separated  from  his 
master  if  he  could  help  it.  Shane  thought  he  might  find 
matter  for  a  letter  to  Moira  on  the  subject. 

He  remained  on  deck  watching  till  dawn,  in  earnest 
self-communion,  forming,  boyishly  enough,  a  hundred 
stern  resolves  against  himself,  a  hundred  excellent  reso- 
lutions for  the  future.  One  thing  was  certain,  and  that 
would  be  a  pleasant  and  easy  task:  he  must  show  Clenane 
he  was  not  the  ungrateful  fellow  this  last  year  of  heed- 
less self-indulgence  had  made  him  out.  Father  Blake 

269 


NEW  WINE 

would  be  his  treasurer.     No  old  friend  should  have  cause 
to  curse  him  for  a  black  heart. 

To  look  after  his  own  people,  those  people  over  there 
in  England,  who  were  not  of  his  race,  to  make  himself 
respected  and  loved  by  them  would  prove  an  altogether 
more  arduous  business.  It  was  an  austere  time  of  pro- 
bation he  traced  for  himself.  A  new  conception  of  ex- 
istence had  been  set  before  him:  and  he  saw  with  a  naive 
surprise  that  it  was  a  right  and  manly  one:  he  must  do 
his  duty.  Messrs.  Somerset,  Parker  &  Co.  would  cer- 
tainly be  uncommonly  pleased.  Of  course  it  would  be 
more  difficult  now  than  at  the  beginning ;  so  much  the  bet- 
ter, he  was  in  the  mood  for  meeting  difficulties.  He 
would  show  them  all,  Father  Blake  first,  that  there  was 
stuff  in  him.  He  would  show  Moira — and  with  the 
thought  of  her,  across  the  gloom  of  the  immediate  fu- 
ture, even  as  now  over  the  wide,  shadowy  world  about 
him  and  the  unseen  restlessness  of  the  sea,  the  radiance  of 
a  dawning  day  came  stealing. 


BOOK  III 

//  /  take  my  wings   early  in  the  morning:  and  dwell  in  the 

uttermost  parts  of  the  sea, 
Even  then  also  shall  thy  hand  lead  me. 

— PSALMS 


"STAES"    AND     "PADDY" 

IF  Shane  had  been  the  kind  of  young  man  that  takes 
pleasure  in  the  picture  phrase,  he  might  have  headed  his 
letter  to  Clenane:  "From  an  Apple-Orchard  in  France;" 
but,  as  it  was — digging  his  indelible  pencil  with  scarcely 
legible  results  into  the  ruled  block — according  to  an  ap- 
parently unbreakable  convention — he  contented  himself 
with  the  abbreviated  date:  16.V.18. 

An  apple  orchard  in  France  on  the  sixteenth  of  May, 
set  about  with  tents,  it  is  true,  and  with  the  lush  green 
grass  trampled,  but  nevertheless  a  delectable  place ;  one 
fluttering  sheet  of  blossom  in  which  a  concourse  of  in- 
tensely preoccupied  bees  kept  up  an  unrelenting  hum ! 
Other  sounds  there  were  here,  not  congruous  to  May-time 
in  an  orchard-close ;  a  never-ceasing  rattle  and  boom,  va- 
ried by  an  occasional  nearer  combination  of  noises;  hiss, 
crash,  and  explosion.  Hummings  too,  louder  than  any 
number  of  honeysuckers  could  produce,  even  in  the  ex- 
cited hour  of  swarming — great  musical  hummings,  rising, 
tone  after  tone,  to  form,  as  it  were,  one  huge  chord,  which 
seemed  to  envelop  the  earth,  and  then,  like  some  magic 
cloud,  endowed  with  song,  pass  swiftly,  chanting  as  it 
went.  Grave  and  beautiful,  it  was  always  a  song  of  hero- 
ism; and,  one  way  or  another,  nearly  always  a  song  of 
death. 

But  Shane,  sitting  on  an  empty  store-box,  absorbed 

273 


NEW  WINE 

in  his  letter — writing  being,  as  ever,  a  matter  of  some  la- 
bor to  him — heeded  neither  the  rattle  and  boom  of  the 
guns  nor  the  myriad  murmur  of  the  bees.  He  was  very 
far  away  from  his  surroundings,  with  the  amazing  sin- 
gle-minded power  of  detachment  peculiar  to  the  British 
soldier  in  the  World-War.  His  thoughts  were  altogether 
fixed  upon  the  things  of  home — the  trivial,  everyday  be- 
loved things  which  make  the  sum  of  ordinary  life,  which, 
in  ordinary  life,  slip  by  unnoticed,  but  which  to  the  man 
at  the  front  were  as  so  many  precious  sanities  snatched 
out  of  chaos. 

"You  have  not  told  me  if  you  have  got  the  bottle  of 
Benbow  for  Leprechaun,  it  is  the  grandest  stuff  for  the 
dogs  that  ever  was.  It  is  a  pity  I  could  not  be  having 
the  old  fellow  out  here ;  but,  then,  you  would  not  have  the 
keeping  of  him  once  again,  and  that  would  be  a  worse 
pity ;  for  maybe  you  would  not  be  wanting  to  write  to  me 
at  all." 

Here  Shane  paused,  and  a  complacent.,  smile  appeared 
on  his  face,  hardened,  thinned,  and  bronzed  by  nearly 
four  years'  varied  campaigning.  He  sucked  his  pencil 
thoughtfully,  and  a  bright  violet  patch  appeared  on  his 
lips.  Vivid  violet,  too,  were  the  next  words  on  the  flimsy 
sheet. 

"Moira,  dear,  I  am  only  joking." 

A  shadow  fell  across  the  sunshine  of  the  trampled 
grass,  and  he  glanced  up.  His  tent  companion  stood  be- 
side him. 

"Hallo,  Stars!" 

"Hallo,  Paddy!" 

In  spite  of  the  limited  number  of  his  years — he  was 
even  now  not  yet  twenty-three — Antony  Lee  Saltash  had 

274 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

joined  the  British  air  service  early  in  the  war.  He  was 
already  Captain,  Pilot,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  become 
Squadron  Commander.  An  American  by  birth,  educated 
in  Paris,  he  was  something  of  an  anomaly  in  other  things 
besides.  No  one  quite  knew  his  history;  for,  though  he 
was  given  to  eloquence  on  abstract  subjects,  he  was  ex- 
tremely reticent  about  personal  matters.  An  excellent 
comrade  to  all,  he  had  made  no  close  friends,  until  Shane 
appeared  on  his  scene. 

A  small,  delicate-looking,  serious-faced  youth  himself, 
cultivated  to  the  tips  of  his  artistic  fingers,  he  was  the 
antithesis  of  the  Irishman.  On  some  points  they  must 
have  met,  however;  for,  except  when  in  the  air  (Shane 
was  observer  to  another  pilot)  they  were  inseparable. 
In  a  community  given  to  simple  jests,  his  nationality 
promptly  obtained  for  him  the  nickname  of  "Stars  and 
Stripes,"  which,  by  a  natural  process,  was  abbreviated 
to  "Stars,"  a  title  of  peculiar  appropriateness  in  view  of 
a  remarkable  record  for  "star  turns.'*  An  Irishman 
came  by  the  Paddy  as  inevitably  as  a  Scotchman  by  Jock, 
though,  as  Shane  was  by  no  means  singular  in  the  gal- 
lant company  which  formed  this  particular  squadron,  he 
was  sometimes  distinguished  by  the  affectionate  appella- 
tion of  Paddywhacks,  in  compliment  to  the  energy  with 
which  he  dealt  with  the  Boche. 

Captain  Saltash  stepped  round  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  tent  door,  dragged  a  camp-stool  out  for  his  own 
use,  and  began  to  light  a  cigarette  without  further  speech. 
Shane  scribbled  on  with  energy,  dug  his  pencil  into  the 
paper  with  a  final  dash,  folded  the  sheet  and  addressed  it. 
Not  till  this  operation  was  completed  did  his  companion 
break  the  silence. 

275 


NEW  WINE 

"I  and  Mike  are  the  only  ones  back." 

Shane  flung  him  a  swift,  questioning  glance. 

"Don't  be  a  croaker,  they'll  turn  up." 

Saltash  paused ;  blew  a  little  series  of  interlinked 
smoke-rings,  and  then  said,  dropping  the  words  slowly : — 

"Vandeleur's  gone,  and  Bulkeley,  sure  enough.  Dud 
pressure,  wings  crumpled  in  dive.  Side-slipped  away 
from  Archie.  Went  down  in  flames,  right  into  the  Hun." 

Shane's  blue  eyes  remained  fixed  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  he  said,  philosophically :  "Good  men !"  and  pro- 
ceeded to  light  a  pipe. 

"God  rest  their  souls,"  he  added  to  himself.  Though 
he  had  learned  a  tremendous  amount  in  four  crowded 
years,  though  he  had  picked  up  a  good  deal  of  slang  and 
as  much  carelessness  of  manner,  as  much  certainty  of 
doing  or  saying  the  right  kind  of  thing  as  any  of  his  com- 
rades, he  had  not  unlearned  the  simplicity  of  his  adher- 
ence to  his  old  faith,  nor  gathered  any  superior  concep- 
tions concerning  the  conduct  of  either  God  or  man. 

"Maybe  the  others  will  turn  up." 

"Maybe.  Three  out  of  four  busloads  would  make  a 
big  gap." 

"Hark  at  that !"  cried  Shane.  The  drone  of  a  machine 
up  in  the  clouds  came  drivingly  across  to  them  out  of 
the  confused  clamor  to  which  their  ears  were  so  mucH 
accustomed  that  they  scarce  noticed  it.  "Hark  at  that !" 
he  repeated.  "What  did  I  say?  Here's  one  anyhow. 
Engine's  missing  too,  badly." 

The  great  machine  appeared  with  what  seemed  start- 
ling suddenness  over  the  orchard  trees;  swooped,  hesi- 
tated, swerved. 

"It's  the  Blighter  and  the  Pup!"  yelled  Shane,  vio- 

276 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

lently  excited.  "What  d'you  bet,  Stars,  they'll  be  doing 
a  crash  upon  us?  Be  jabers,  that's  not  the  way  I'd  like 
to  be  getting  out  of  the  war!  No.  Good  old  Blighter! 
He'll  have  his  bus  to  the  drome  as  pretty  as  if  he  wasn't 
winged  at  all." 

He  had  jumped  up,  and  stood  gazing  after  the  plane; 
and  while  he  looked,  Saltash  looked  at  him. 

He  was  never  tired  of  contemplating  Shane.  The 
splendor  of  his  youthful  virility,  his  classic  handsome- 
ness of  looks  and  his  unconsciousness  of  them ;  the  healthy 
zest  he  brought  to  all  things,  even  in  war;  his  sane  poise 
of  spirit,  untouched  by  morbidness  on  one  side  or  bru- 
tality on  the  other;  his  simplicity,  his  cleanmindedness, 
his  boyish  ways  and  his  superb  fighting  qualities  made 
of  him  a  point  of  rest  to  Saltash's  sensitive  soul. 

The  American  seldom  smiled,  except,  faintly,  with  his 
eyes.  They  smiled  now.  "What  a  fellow!"  he  was 
thinking.  "What  a  model  for  a  sculptor !  Mercury  for 
a  Gian  Bologna,  St.  George  for  a  Donatello."  Shad- 
owing thought  swiftly  drove  the  smile  from  his  eyes — 
the  strained,  haunted  eyes  of  nearly  every  fighting  man 
in  the  great  ranks  that  spread  from  the  hills  of  Jura  to 
the  Dunes  of  Dunkirk!  How,  many  a  time,  had  he  not 
himself  helped  to  extricate  from  the  wreckage  of  his 
wings  the  broken  body  of  some  poor  Icarus,  youthful  as 
Shane,  as  gallant,  as  joyously  fearless!  How  many  gaps 
might  there  not  even  be  to-day  in  their  small  mess ! 

He  heaved  a  sigh,  then  gave  himself  a  mental  shake. 
At  least  the  hour  was  theirs  still.  If  there  is  one 
philosophy  of  all  others  learnt  in  the  field,  it  is  this  one: 
the  present  is  all  you  have — make  the  most  of  it.  Saltash 
sighed  again,  but  with  pleasure,  as  he  contemplated  the 

277 


NEW  WINE 

exquisite  effect  of  the  apple-tree  in  front  of  him  against 
the  blue  of  the  afternoon  sky.  He  was  an  artist,  in  his 
way  would  now  and  then  dash  off  a  water-color,  sketches 
that  had  something  Japanese  in  their  suggestive  reticence. 
He  was  inclined  to  look  for  his  block  now,  but  refrained, 
partly  from  fatigue,  partly  because,  as  he  presently  ex- 
plained to  Shane,  who  was  contentedly  puffing  at  his  pipe 
in  silence,  there  was  never  anything  more  impossible  to 
paint. 

"Oh,  my,  whenever  I  see  an  orchard  picture  I  just 
turn  away !  Blobs  of  paint,  or  woolly  cocoons,  to  rep- 
resent what  is  at  once  so  definite  and  so  ethereal !  There's 
only  one  man  who  ever  painted  a  true  picture  of  spring 
blossom;  that  was  Meredith,  and  his  a  word  picture." 

Shane  shifted  his  pipe.  He  had  not  been  paying  much 
attention  to  his  comrade's  discourse.  The  poor  chap 
was  fond  of  rambling  on  that  way  and  he  himself  had 
no  objection;  he  liked  the  sound  of  the  voice,  so  long  as 
he  was  not  expected  to  understand,  but  he  had  caught  a 
name. 

"Meredith — the  fellow  with  the  broken  nose  in  C 
Flight?" 

Saltash's  eyes  had  their  smile.  Paddy's  depths  of  ig- 
norance were  a  perpetual  source  of  affectionate  amuse- 
ment to  him. 

"I  might  have  guessed,"  he  said,  "you  wouldn't  even 
have  a  nodding  acquaintance  with  Meredith.  He  was  a 
writer,  my  boy — a  great  one — though  not  for  the  mul- 
titude; takes  some  reading.  Well,  now,  wait  a  moment, 
I'll  put  a  little  Meredith  into  you,  that  you  won't  forget 
— not  with  that  tree  before  you,  though  it  isn't  double 
cherry." 

278 


"STARS'9  AND  "PADDY" 

He  got  up,  slipped  into  the  tent;  Shane  looking  after 
him,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  tapped  his  forehead  with 
a  grin. 

As  his  friend  came  out,  holding  a  little  book,  the  Irish- 
man replaced  his  pipe,  nodded,  and  between  clenched 
teeth,  bade  him  fire  away.  Saltash  turned  over  the  pages 
with  a  knowing  hand,  and  then  began  to  read.  Long 
residence  in  France  had  given  a  certain  precision  to  his 
speech,  perhaps  also  a  shade  of  accent,  which  made  it 
something  very  different  from  the  usual  soft  slurring 
drawl  of  the  Southern  American.  But  he  had  the  pleas- 
ant voice  as  well  as  the  gentle  distinction  of  his  race. 

'  'The  load  of  virginal  blossoms,  whiter  than  summer 
cloud  on  the  sky,  showered  and  drooped,  and  clustered  so 
thick  as  to  claim  color,  and  seem,  like  higher  Alpine  snows 
in  noon-sunlight,  a  flush  of  white.  From  deep  to  deeper 
heavens  of  white,  her  eyes  perched  and  soared.'  " 

Shane  removed  his  pipe. 

"Who  is  her?" 

"You  Goth,"  Saltash  good-humoredly  expounded,  "the 
lady  who  was  looking  at  the  cherry-tree." 

"Oh,  there's  a  lady  in  it,  is  there?" 

Shane's  face  unaccountably  clouded  over.  But,  his 
melancholy  eyes  back  on  the  page,  the  reader  proceeded, 
skipping  to  the  phrases  with  which  he  wished  to  impress 
the  listener: — 

'".  .  .  wonder  so  divine,  so  unbounded,  was  like  soaring 
into  homes  of  angel-crowded  space,  sweeping  through 
folded  and  on  to  folded  white  fountain-bow  of  wings,  in  in- 
numerable columns.'  " 

"I  can't  stand  that  tosh!"  exclaimed  Shane  roughly. 
"I  must  put  my  letter  in  the  post  anyhow.  Meet  you 
at  tea." 

279 


NEW  WINE 

Saltash  stared  thoughtfully  after  the  striding  figure. 
"What  did  I  come  up  against  there?"  he  wondered.  He 
was  to  receive  the  answer  to  his  question  unexpectedly 
that  night  from  Shane's  own  lips. 

It  had  been  an  unusually  quiet  evening,  for  not  only 
had  the  second  missing  machine  failed  to  return,  but  or- 
ders had  gone  forth  that  the  Flight  was  to  put  in  some 
particularly  risky  work  in  the  dawn. 

"Hardly  seems  worth  while  turning  in,"  said  Shane. 
He  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  his  narrow  bed.  "Phew ! 
how  that  lamp  stinks !  Brings  me  back  to  the  days  of 
my  youth.  You  know  I  was  riz  on  the  west  coast  of 
Ireland,  and  it's  not  electric  light  we'd  be  having  there." 
He  dropped  unconsciously  into  the  old  phraseology.  But 
though  he  spoke  jocularly,  the  unwonted  gloom  on  his 
face  did  not  lift.  He  returned  to  the  present  abruptly. 
^"Sorry  I  interrupted  your  recitation  this  afternoon, 

Stars.  Fact  is "  he  paused,  kicked  the  leg  of  the 

bed,  "fact  is,  it  put  me  in  mind  of  something."  Once 
again  he  stopped,  and  began  to  whistle. 

From  where  he  sat,  regulating  the  lamp  with  neat 
touches  of  slender  hands,  Saltash  glanced  not  so  much 
inquiringly  as  sympathetically  at  his  tent  companion. 
Shane  answered  the  look  by  a  halting  confidence. 

"It  was  that  stuff  you  read  me.  There  was  some- 
body once  who  reminded  me — at  least,  it  wasn't  she  who 
reminded  me,  but  her  room — herself  and  her  room,  the 
whole  thing,  rather,  if  you  can  understand  what  I 
mean —  —  ?" 

"Quite  so." 

"When  she  brought  me  into  it  the  first  time — it  was 
her  own  sitting-room — it  was  all  white,  and  she  herself 

280 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

in  white — and  I  thought — what  a  fool  I  was  ! — that  noth- 
ing could  be  so  white  as  her  soul.  And  I  thought — I 
said  to  her:  'It's  like  walking  into  a  hawthorn-tree  in 
flower.'  You  know  the  white  blossom  and  the  pure,  clean 
smell.  And,  oh,  it  was  all  rottenness !" 

Saltash  gave  a  faint  start. 

"Rottenness,  that  was  all  that  was  in  it,"  repeated 
Shane  with  energy.  "And  if  I  were  to  die  to-morrow  it's 
all  I  would  have  got  out  of  life." 

"You  mean,  in  the  way  of  woman's  love?" 

"I  do  not,"  cried  Shane,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly. 
"Thank  God,  there's  been  better  than  that  for  me,  and 

I'm  humbly  grateful !  But  I  mean — well "  He  got 

up,  and  sat  down  again.  "I'c  '  ^V"  to  be  keeping  se- 
crets from  you,  Stars.  We  ha\x,.  n  each  other 
very  long — not  more  than  three  or  four  months,  have  we? 
— but,  you're  about  the  only  real  friend  I  ever  made, 
though  it's  many  a  good  chum  I  left  behind  in  Gallipoli. 
But  friends  as  we  are,  neither  of  us  are  fellows  to  be  talk- 
ing much  about  ourselves.  Some  things  can't  be  hidden, 
though.  You've  seen  me  writing,  and  you  must  have 
guessed  I  was  writing  to  a  girl." 

"Quite  so." 

"It's  the  girl  I  want  to  marry." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"The  girl  I  mean  to  marry." 

"Sure." 

"Ah,  but  I'd  have  manned  her  long  ago,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  that — the  creature  that  seemed  like  an  angel 
in  the  blossom — that's  what  put  me  in  mind  of  her,  when 
you  read  me  your  fine  phrases  all  about  the  whiteness 
and  the  angels'  wings.  Ton  my  soul,"  cried  Shane,  "it 

281 


NEW  WINE 

came  all  back  to  me  with  such  a  rush,  it  turned  my  heart 
on  me !  My  curse ' 

Saltash  flung  up  one  hand. 

"Don't,  Paddy,  don't!" 

"Don't  what?" 

"Don't  curse  her." 

Shane  stared. 

"I  tell  you "  he  began  hotly. 

A  faint  color  rose  in  the  American's  olive  cheek. 

"If  you  loved  her  once." 

"Love?  I  was  her  tool,  her  dupe.  You  don't  know 
the  story,  Stars;  and  how  could  I  tell  it  to  you?" 

"No,  you  couldn't."  Saltash  spoke  quickly.  His  kind 
face  that  looked  at  o^~-  young  and  so  worn  with  life, 
was  the  mirrt  gained  thought.  "You  ought,"  he 

said,  weighing  his  words,  "at  least  it  seems  to  me,  Paddy, 
old  man — to  remember  that  you  did  love  her,  and  that 
she  is  a  woman."  And,  as  Shane  still  stared  with  an 
angry,  uncomprehending  gaze,  like  that  of  some  wild  stag 
at  the  intruder  on  his  ground,  he  went  on,  patiently.  "I 
don't  think  any  man  ought  to  think  hardly  of  a  woman. 
I  don't  know  anything  about  women  myself,  except  my 
mother — nor  anything  about  love,  except  what  a  boy 
feels  for  his  mother.  I  reckon  I'm  too  young,  though  I 
don't  know  about  that  either.  I  have  a  sort  of  feeling 
sometimes  that  I  wasn't  made  for  that  kind  of  thing  or 
meant  to  know  it  ever." 

"What  do  you  think  you  we'.»i  made  for,  then?"  Shane 
put  the  question  curiously. 

Saltash  pondered  a  moment  and  then,  with  smiling 
eyes  went  on  without  direct  reply:  "I  dare  say  you'll 
laugh  a  time,  but  I  was  brought  up  that  way ;  to  respect 

282 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

all  women.  That  was  the  lesson  my  mother — yes,  she's 
dead,  Paddy — yes,  before  the  war,  I'm  glad  to  say — the 
great  lesson  she  was  never  tired  of  teaching  me :  chivalry. 
'Be  a  knight  in  your  heart,  my  little  son,'  she  used  to  say 
to  me.  Somehow,  whenever  I  think  of  a  woman,  I  think 
of  her.  And  it  hurts  me  when  any  one — like  you,  just 
now " 

He  paused.  Shane's  look  of  anger  was  replaced  by 
an  air  at  once  abashed  and  softened.  The  memory  of 
his  own  mother,  child  as  he  was  when  he  had  lost  her, 
had  remained  a  haunting  tenderness  to  him.  He  knew 
that  his  comrade's  mother  had  been  a  Virginian  like  his 
own.  It  had  been  a  link  between  them  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  they  had  amused  themselves  by  striving  to  find 
a  blood  connection,  though  Shane's  complete  ignorance  of 
his  own  genealogy  had  frustrated  the  attempt. 

"There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  and  don't  I 
know  it  myself,"  he  said  at  last,  doggedly  though  the 
fierceness  had  gone  out  of  his  tone,  "between  the  good 
woman  and  the — and  the  bad  one." 

"Sure.  But  I  look  at  it  this  way.  As  far  as  I  know 
the  world — I've  not  lived  very  long,  but  I've  seen  a  lot 
these  last  years — it's  pretty  easy  to  call  a  woman  bad. 
But  that  badness  of  hers,  poor  soul,  it  could  not  have 
done  the  man  who's  speaking  of  her  any  harm,  unless  he 
had  had  a  badness  in  himself  to  meet  it." 

Shane  gripped  the  bed,  and  stared  as  if  his  gentle 
friend  had  struck  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  Paddy,"  said  the  American  youth  quietly 
into  the  silence. 

"You  must  not  think,"  said  poor  Shane  at  last,  "that 
I  was — oh,  dash  it! — that  I've  got  anything  really  on  my 

283 


NEW  WINE 

conscience  with  regard  to  her.     Not  really,"  he  repeated 
with  a  firmer  tone.     "She  got  no  harm  from  me." 

"I  was  pretty  sure  of  that." 

"But  she  wants  to  make  out  she's  got  a  claim  on  me. 
She  keeps  writing.  Of  course  I  don't  answer  her"  (he 
flushed),  "and  if  I  was  able  to — I'd  go  over  to  Ireland 
to-morrow  and  get  my  wife." 

There  was  a  silence.  On  Shane's  side  the  pause  was 
simmering  with  unspoken  clamors,  on  that  of  Saltash's 
it  had  the  understanding  patience  which  awaits  yet  in- 
vites confidence. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  for  her,"  Shane  went  on  passion- 
ately, "we'd  have  been  married  long  ago :  and  if  I'm  done 
for  to-morrow  I'll  have  missed  the  best  in  life." 

"Somehow,  I  don't  think  you'll  be  done  for  to-morrow; 
but,  whatever  happens,  you  cannot  say  that." 

"And  why  not — if  it's  my  way  of  thinking?" 

There  was  the  gleam  in  the  other's  eyes  which  betok- 
ened his  amusement.  Yet  he  answered,  in  accents  that 
had  a  certain  solemnity. 

"Because  you'd  die  doing  your  duty." 

"Oh,  that !" 

Four  years  of  war  service  do  not  make  a  man  callous 
to  the  ever  present  danger,  and  the  huge  issues  before 
his  soul;  but  they  make  him,  as  a  rule,  shy  of  reference 
to  the  subject.  Shane,  like  his  comrades,  had  learned  to 
clothe  himself  with  an  inner  armor  against  emotionalism 
in  others,  lest  the  fatal  thing  should  penetrate  to  his  own 
spirit. 

"I  reckon  that's  the  best  death  a  man  can  have,"  said 
Saltash  serenely.  There  was  no  emotionalism  here. 

284 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

Shane  contemplated  his  companion,  and  his  gaze  grew 
uneasy  as  an  unwelcome  thought  protruded  itself. 

"Hallo,  Stars!" 

"Hallo,  Paddy?" 

"You  had  a  way  of  saying  that  as  if — you'd  be  glad 
— I  say,  don't  you  want  to  come  through?" 

"The  oil's  come  right  out,  over  the  lamp  socket — that's 
what  is  making  it  smell,  I  guess.  Tomson's  a  good  lad, 
but  he  will  fill  it  too  full." 

The  American,  with  the  deliberation  which  character- 
ized all  his  movements,  produced,  from  a  box  under  his 
bed,  an  oily  cloth  with  which  he  carefully  wiped  the  lamp. 
As,  one  by  one,  he  next  wiped  his  fingers  on  its  cleanest 
corner,  he  remarked,  much  in  the  same  indifferent  tone: — 

"Well,  if  you  come  to  put  it  so,  I  couldn't  rightly  tell 
you,  Paddy.  Sometimes  I  think  I'd  like  to  find — well — 
a  place  where  there'd  be  peace.  I  reckon  I'd  find  that. 
And  sometimes,  when  I  look  at  you  and  see  the  other  jolly 
fellows,  I  feel  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  you,  till  you  were 
all  through  with  it.  You  see,  I  joined  the  fight  long  be- 
fore my  country  thought  of  coming  in,  because " 

he  paused,  then  the  tired,  dreaming  eyes  lighted  up  and 
smiled  with  a  gentle  humorous  contraction  of  the  lids 
that  made  his  young  countenance  altogether  charming 
to  look  on.  "Well,  life  can  be  a  considerable  muddle 
sometimes.  And  when  a  man  sees  the  right,  clear  in  front 
of  him,  and  can  go  for  it — that,  I  take  it,  is — some  sat- 
isfaction." 

Shane  sat,  turning  over  these  remarks  in  his  mind 
without  conviction. 

"You're  such  a  queer  little  chap,"  he  murmured  at 
last.  "I  suppose  it's  possible  really  to  feel  like  that. 

285 


Priests  do,  I  know,  but  you — why,  Stars,  I  don't  know 
that  you've  got  any  religion  at  all." 

"I've  never  thought  very  much  of  religion,  and  I've 
studied  the  question  deeply."  The  American  voice  had 
its  usual  pleasant  quiet  flow  while  it  made  these,  to  Shane, 
astounding  statements.  "I  was  brought  up  at  a  French 
Lycee.  You  don't  see  much  to  stimulate  you  in  the  way 
of  religion  there.  And  my  dear  little  mother  was  very 
Puritan.  And  somehow  I  didn't  seem  to  cotton  to  the 
American  churchman  when  I  met  him.  And  Bud- 
dhism  "  he  paused,  smiled  with  his  eyes,  and  went  on : 

"The  great  religion  of  the  East  I  mean,  it's  very  alluring, 
but,  after  all,  it  ends  in  negation;  with  obliteration;  I 
could  not  hold  with  that  at  all,  so  I  just  made  a  religion 
in  myself;  and  I've  gone  by  it  as  straight  as  I  can.  And 
I've  had  great  peace  of  conscience.  I  reckon  that's  a 
good  sign?" 

"You  made  a  religion  in  yourself !" 

The  listener,  Catholic  and  Irish,  repeated  the  words 
in  shocked  amazement. 

"Have  I  scared  you,  Paddy?  I  reckon  it's  not  so 
very  different  from  yours,  after  all,  only  it's  considerably 
simplified.  I've  got  what  you  may  call  a  main  principle. 
I  believe  that  you're  cwated  by  a  good  God,  to  do  good, 
to  be  good,  to  think  good.  And  that,  if  you  don't,  you 
get  hit  back,  sure  as  fate,  by  the  very  evil  you've  done. 
That's  justice.  It's  not  punishment,  it's  logic.  You  re- 
member the  copybook  text  that  virtue  is  its  own  reward. 
You  bet  that's  true,  just  as  evil  is  its  own  retribution. 
The  evil  you  do,  every  evil,  as  I  take  it,  is  a  fact  in  the 
spiritual  and  the  temporal  life  that  sets  certain  conse- 
quences going,  as  inevitably  as  that  shell  that's  explod- 

286  ' 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

ing  yonder  this  moment  will  produce  virbations  forever 
into  space.  Look  at  the  Germans,  my! — the  world  will 
see  evil  fulfilled  of  itself  in  them,  one  day,  mark  my  words ! 
Perhaps  you  will  see  it,  Paddy ;  that  will  be  a  chastise- 
ment such  as  never  has  been  since  the  fall  of  Jerusalem." 

Shane's  ideas  about  the  fall  of  Jerusalem  were  rather 
vague,  but  Saltash's  theory  struck  his  conscience  at  the 
point  where  it  was  most  vulnerable. 

"Do  you  mean,"  he  said,  "that  you've  got  to  be  pun- 
ished all  the  time  for  every  wrong?  That  nothing  can 
be  undone  ever?  I'm  not  a  good  hand  at  expressing  my- 
self like  you,  Stars ;  but  it's  an  awful  thought,  if  I'm  un- 
derstanding you  right.  If  a  fellow  is  sorry  and  all  that, 
in  the  name  of  God,  can't  it  all  be  wiped  out?  That's 
what  my  faith  teaches,  anyhow." 

"Pardon  me,"  replied  the  youthful  philosopher,  with 
his  air  of  antique  wisdom,  "your  faith,  on  the  contrary, 
inculcates  that  even  when  sin  is  forgiven,  it  has  yet  to  be 
atoned  for — to  the  uttermost  farthing,  I  believe  is  the 
Biblical  expression.  Your  religion  is  essentially  the  re- 
ligion of  atonement,  and  I  confess  I  have  an  admiration 
for  the  logical  manner  in  which  the  doctrine  is  inculcated 
and  applied.  Without  feeling  that  I  could  ever  myself 
become  a  member  of  it,  I  have  been  much  struck  with  the 
practical  results  of  its  working  among  the  men.  It  gives 
them  strength  and  peace  of  mind — whether  justified  or 
not.  'A  religion  to  die  in,'  as  poor  Carmichael,  who 
became  what  you  call  a  convert  shortly  before  he  went 
West,  said  to  me  the  very  last  night  we  were  at  mess  to- 
gether. And  besides,"  here  his  eyes  smiled  at  Shane, 
"repentance  is  atonement.  It  puts  you  right  with  your 
own  soul,  anyhow.  And  you  can  bear  up  against  the 

287 


NEW  WINE 

other  results,  the  consequences — the  vibrations.  After 
all,  that's  life.  It's  what  we  are  all  doing." 

Shane  thrust  his  hand  through  his  hair,  with  a  boyish 
gesture  of  distress ;  then  he  yawned,  showing  all  his  white 
teeth  like  a  young  dog. 

"I'll  turn  in,"  he  said. 

As  he  cast  his  clothes  from  him  he  said  suddenly: 
"Glory  be  to  God,  that's  the  uncomfortable  talk  we've 
been  having — and  we  with  that  devil's  stunt  before  us  to- 
morrow !" 

He  rolled  into  bed,  and  pulled  his  pillow  over  his  black 
head:  a  strong  hint  that  he  had  had  enough  of  discus- 
sion. Nevertheless,  long  after  Saltash  was  himself 
asleep,  Shane  lay  awake,  revolving  in  a  troubled  mind  the 
problems  which  had  been  set  before  it.  His  natural  in- 
stinct was  to  take  life,  the  good  and  the  bad,  with  the  high- 
spirited  carelessness  of  the  healthy  animal.  But  certain 
things  had  gone  deep  with  him:  his  first  pure  boyish  love 
for  Moira;  his  mad,  brief  passion  for  an  unworthy 
woman;  the  discovery,  the  revulsion,  the  humiliation,  the 
return  to  old  attachments. 

He  had  not  revisited  Clenane  since  the  June  night 
when  Father  Blake  had  sent  him  forth  with  a  counsel 
which  matched  the  views  of  the  agnostic  young  American. 
The  outbreak  of  war,  however,  had  found  him  barely  es- 
tablished on  his  English  property,  still  bewildered  by, 
only  beginning  to  feel  interested  in,  the  multifarious  obli- 
gations his  position  entailed.  He  had  promptly  joined 
the  Yeomanry  of  his  county,  and  in  due  course  departed 
for  Egypt,  taking  part  later  in  the  heroic  and  harassing 
struggles  in  Gallipoli. 

288 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

Wounded  pride,  a  boyish  desire  through  some  splendid 
record  of  valor  to  rehabilitate  himself  in  the  eyes  of  those 
whom  he  had  dismally  disappointed,  had  kept  him  from 
attempting  to  see  them  before  his  departure.  There  had 
been  another  reason,  too ;  the  disquieting  manner  in  which 
Vcnetia  Hobson,  now  and  again,  tried  to  reopen  com- 
munication with  him.  He  had  been  glad  to  get  away 
overseas  at  first,  from  all  possibility  of  this ;  but,  after 
a  mistaken  attempt  at  self -justification,  he  had  deter- 
mined to  cast  the  whole  matter  from  him  and  had  ceased 
to  reply  to  her  letters.  Nevertheless,  at  certain  long, 
and  irregular  intervals,  these  continued  to  come.  Strange, 
mysterious  documents,  some  of  them  couched  as  if  he  and 
she  were  acknowledged  lovers,  parted  only  through  the 
cruel  necessities  of  the  times ;  others  in  a  tone  of  pure 
friendliness,  discursive,  poetic,  picturesque,  such  as  a 
young  soldier  at  the  front  would  be  flattered  and  stimu- 
lated to  receive  from  a  cultivated  woman  of  the  world 
who  was  young  enough  to  charm  and  old  enough  deli- 
cately to  mother  him.  Others,  again,  appealed,  re- 
proached, accused. 

Shane  hardly  glanced  at  any  of  them  now.  He  would 
crumple  them  in  his  hand  and  fling  them  from  him.  He 
was  not  one  to  allow  himself  to  be  hampered  in  life  by  a 
chain  which  he  had  deliberately  broken.  As  for  Moira, 
he  was  only  biding  his  time.  The  excitement  and  possi- 
bilities of  the  air  warfare  had  tempted  him  keenly;  but 
it  was  above  all  the  thought  of  her  that  had  inspired  him 
to  seek  distinction  in  the  most  brilliant  branch  of  the  serv- 
ice. He  had  succeeded  without  too  much  difficulty  in 
being  transferred  to  it.  Indeed,  Shane  was  cut  out,  so 
to  speak,  by  Nature,  for  the  glories  of  flying. 

289 


NEW  WINE 

He  fully  intended,  the  moment  official  recognition 
should  place  him  in  a  sufficiently  favorable  light,  to  go 
over  to  Clenane  and  rush  Moira  into  a  "war  marriage." 
Though  he  corresponded  with  her  he  had  not  attempted 
to  reestablish  the  broken  engagement.  He  could  not 
bring  himself  to  do  this  by  letter;  he  felt  the  sensitive- 
ness of  her  wounded  spirit  |dl  through  those  simple  epis- 
tles of  hers,  breathing  anxiety  and  prayerful  hopes  for 
his  safety  only  in  deliberately  sisterly  terms.  With  every 
day  that  went  by  the  realization  of  his  betrayal  and  of 
her  magnanimity  became  increasingly  poignant  in  him. 
From  his  own  lips  only  she  must  hear  the  story  of  his 
folly  and  his  repentance;  from  her  lips  only  would  he 
take  sweet  forgiveness.  Of  her  he  felt  absolutely  sure: 
she  would  never  think  of  another  man.  He  must  some- 
how always  have  been  confident  of  this;  for,  though  he 
had  been  haunted  by  the  thought  of  her  becoming  a  nun, 
he  had  never  once  had  the  least  fear  of  her  marrying. 

She  was  back  at  the  farm  now,  helping  to  nurse  her 
father,  whose  health  had  broken  down.  Her  letters  were 
chronicles  of  Clenane:  of  Father  Blake,  still  a  pastor  to 
his  people,  though  "God  help  him,  it's  the  miracle  he's 
alive  at  all";  of  Leprechaun,  gray  about  the  muzzle;  of 
Honor,  prosperous  again,  and  of  her  succession  of  "lovely 
pigs  and  grand  little  hens" ;  of  the  doctor's  sister  "dying 
on  him,"  and  the  talk  there  was  of  his  now  getting  a  wife. 
And  every  letter  would  end  with  some  such  words  as 
these:  "Take  care  of  yourself,  dear  Shane,  I  do  be  pray- 
ing that  you  may  come  home  safe." 

But,  as  he  had  complained,  his  conversation  with 
Saltash  had  disquieted  Shane.  What  a  terrible  theory 
for  any  one  to  entertain,  that  the  consequences  of  wrong- 

290 


"STARS"  AND  "PADDY" 

doing  should  be  irrevocable !  What  if,  by  his  own  fault, 
he  were  to  be  forever  separated  from  Moira!  What  if 
he  should  be  killed  without  having  been  able  to  put  himself 
straight  with  her;  without  a  single  word  of  love  hav-^ 
ing  once  more  passed  between  them!  Had  he  been  true 
to  her,  as  she  to  him,  he  would  have  had  a  year  of  hap- 
piness at  least,  before  the  war  broke  out.  Such  memories 
of  young  wedded  love  to  think  on,  in  those  long  marches, 
those  evenings  in  the  desert,  those  arid,  windswept,  dread- 
ful trenches  in  Gallipoli!  He  would  have  had  a  wife  to 
go  back  to  on  his  brief  leaves,  a  home,  children  to  hold  in 
his  arms,  like  other  men ;  an  heir,  perhaps,  to  follow  after 
him,  were  he  to  crash  to-morrow. 

Saltash.' s  regular  breathing  had  long  testified  to  slum- 
ber when  Shane  lay  still  awake — a  very  unusual  occur- 
rence. He  thought  perhaps,  more  about  his  soul  that 
night,  about  the  problems  of  existence,  the  responsibilities 
of  man's  actions  and  the  possibilities  of  the  future,  than 
he  had  ever  done  in  his  life.  It  seemed  strange  to  him 
that  he  and  Saltash  should  have  become  tent  companions : 
both  were  without  homes,  without  close  ties ;  as  far  as  he 
knew,  without  a  single  being  of  their  blood  to  mourn  them 
if  they  fell.  It  ought  to  make  death  easy,  but  Shane 
knew  that,  for  him,  it  made  the  thought  of  it  unbearable. 

Then,  it  was  his  own  fault,  whereas  Saltash  had  always 
gone  "straight  for  the  right." 


II 


*  MORITUBI    TE    SALUTANT 

HAL-F-PAST  three,  even  on  a  May  morning,  is  an  un- 
inviting hour  at  which  to  rise.  And  the  mingled  excite- 
ment and  apprehension  of  the  task  that  lay  before  them 
made  the  comrades  somewhat  silent  as  they  suppressed 
their  yawns  and  huddled  themselves  in  their  flying  kit. 

When  each  had  swallowed  his  steaming  bowl  of  cocoa, 
they  stepped  out  of  the  tent  together,  and  stood  a  mo- 
ment, looking  upon  the  scene  and  upon  each  other.  The 
grayness  of  dawn  was  beginning  to  be  transfused  with 
the  pale  glimmers  of  a  good  sunrise.  There  was  ground 
mist,  but  not  much.  It  hung  about  the  apple-trees, 
swathing  their  pearly  blossom  shapes  with  mystery.  A 
few  lights  gleamed  yellow  through  raised  tent  doors :  there 
was  movement  in  the  camp — the  orderly  subdued  bustle 
that  preceded  the  departure  of  a  flight. 

The  year  was  approaching  that  favored  period  when 
there  is  little  darkness  a  fine  night  through.  But  in  this 
strange  twilight,  men  and  things,  the  whole  familiar  view, 
had  a  magic  aspect.  To  the  American's  dreamily  ro- 
mantic humor,  his  friend  with  his  flying  cap  drawn  round 
his  chiseled  face,  with  his  tallness,  his  strength  and  lean- 
ness, in  his  close-fitting  garb,  looked  like  a  knight  in 
armor.  He  gazed  on  him,  then  round  about  the  orchard, 
and  back  again.  It  was  the  look  of  a  man  taking  fare- 
well ;  but  Shane  only  saw  that  the  tired  eyes  were  smiling. 

292 


"MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT" 

"It's  going  to  be  a  good  day,  old  chap.  Hope  your 
observer  will  do  you  credit.  Shall  we  get  along?" 

"We  are  full  early,"  said  Saltash,  looking  at  his  wrist- 
watch. 

"So  much  the  better.  I  rather  thought  of  looking  up 

the  padre "  He  broke  off.  "Good  man,  there  he 

comes !" 

Two  figures  were  crossing  the  orchard ;  one,  a  little  be- 
hind the  other,  was  carrying  a  case.  Shane  darted  for- 
ward. 

The  American  stood  still,  watching.  The  R.C.  chap- 
lain with  his  batman — he  knew  that  they  were  taking  the 
short  cut  to  the  barn  at  the  further  end  of  the  orchard 
where  the  priest  would  celebrate  mass  for  such  of  his 
own  men  who  were  about  to  take  their  turn  in  the 
trenches.  They  were  wonderful  fellows,  those  R.C.  chap- 
lains, thought  Saltash,  they  seemed  to  feel  by  instinct 
the  very  moment  when  their  ministrations  might  be 
wanted.  And  their  care  for  the  men  as  "souls"  appealed 
to  one  who,  like  himself,  cultivated  a  deliberate  and  quiet 
consciousness  of  the  fact  that  any  moment  his  own  body 
and  soul  might  be  rent  asunder.  He  had  a  slight  ac- 
quaintance with  the  young  Oxford-bred  cleric,  who, 
scarcely  older  than  Shane,  was  so  cold  in  social  inter- 
course, and  so  ardent  in  spiritual  matters.  Shane  and 
the  padre,  however,  had  never  got  on  particularly  well 
together:  faithful  as  he  was  to  his  creed,  the  Irishman 
had  been  accustomed  to  a  kind  of  priest  very  different 
from  this  reserved,  cultivated  personality.  But  now  he 
sped  towards  him. 

Saltash  saw  how  the  padre  stopping,  dismissed  his 
batman  with  a  gesture;  how  he  and  Shane  then  began  to 

293 


NEW  WINE 

pace  side  by  side,  up  and  down  between  the  apple-trees. 
He  understood  what  it  meant.  Shane  was  confessing 
his  sins.  His  sins!  A  tenderness  misted  the  eyes  of  the 
looker-on;  in  spite  of  those  half  confidences  overnight, 
"Stars"  did  not  believe  that  "Paddy"  had  anything  very 
grievous  on  his  conscience. 

Presently  Shane  pushed  back  his  cap  and  went  down 
on  one  knee.  The  absolution!  Saltash  turned  his  head 
away,  to  gaze  no  more.  He  was  aware  of  the  mystic 
significance  these  rites  had  for  the  initiate;  and  his  deli- 
cate spirit  revolted  from  the  thought  of — unbelieving — 
seeming  to  pry  upon  them.  Yet  it  was  no  unusual  spec- 
tacle in  the  camp.  Shamefaced  as  the  average  Briton 
might  be  in  peace  times,  where  intimate  and  sacred  things 
are  in  question,  the  soldier  in  this  war  attended  as  openly 
and  simply  to  the  concerns  of  his  soul  as  he  did  to  his  al- 
lotted work. 

In  a  very  little  while  Shane  came  running  by.  As  he 
passed,  Saltash  had  a  glimpse  of  his  face  illuminated  by 
the  first  sunshaft.  It  was  radiant. 

The  Hun  was  beginning  to  wake  up  all  along  the  lines. 
Saltash  started  running  in  his  turn,  caught  up  his  com- 
rade and  side  by  side  they  made  for  the  aerodrome. 

A  long  line  of  machines  showed  in  the  faint  light,  gray, 
bony,  like  unimaginably  monstrous  grasshoppers.  The 
two  friends,  in  silence,  joined  a  group  gathered  round 
the  patrol  leader,  who,  in  business-like,  everyday  man- 
ner, gave  them  their  instructions.  Then  the  knot  of 
splendid  youth  divided,  making  off  in  pairs  for  their  ma- 
chines. One  or  two  waved  hands  and  shouted  at  "Stars" 
as  they  went. 

"Morituri  te  salutant!"  murmured  Saltash. 

294 


"MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT" 

"Say  something  a  fellow  can  understand,"  cried  Shane. 
He  seized  his  own  pilot  by  the  arm.  "Come  along, 
Cubby." 

"Get  into  your  machines!"  called  the  squadron  com- 
mander. A  few  moments  later  the  order,  "Start  up," 
ran  along  the  line.  From  the  flight  commander's  engine 
issued  a  vast  roar.  His  machine  slid  forward,  racing 
into  the  wind;  and  then,  without  effort,  rose  superbly, 
with  a  musical  drone,  into  the  exquisite  purity  of  the  air. 
The  rest  followed  in  their  turn.  B  Flight  had  taken  wing 
on  its  gallant  and  desperate  errand. 

For  a  strangely  brief  span  the  world  seemed  possessed 
with  the  sustained  giant  song  of  giant  birds,  then  high 
skies  and  far  horizons  swallowed  both  vision  and  sound, 
and  the  boom  of  the  guns,  the  acrid  hiss  of  the  shells  took 
their  daily  hold  of  it. 

A  troop  of  battered  men  passed  along  the  road  from 
the  trenches,  mud-stained,  exhausted,  tramping  with  tired 
feet,  but  keeping  something  of  the  swing  of  their  pride, 
with  tin  hats  still  set  at  a  rakish  angle  over  countenances 
strained,  weary,  and  unshorn.  Another  day  of  battle 
had  begun. 

By  noon  so  much  young  life  had  paid  its  toll  to  high 
ideals  and  inhuman  ambitions ;  so  much  springing,  puls- 
ing manhood  had  been  crushed,  maimed,  mutilated;  so 
many  machines  had  failed  to  return,  had  crashed,  gone 
down  in  flames ;  a  certain  bombing  party  had  achieved 
the  desired  result;  a  small  raid  had  been  repulsed;  part 
of  our  trenches  had  been  bombarded  and  retaliation  had 
been  given,  full  measure ;  by  noon,  in  fine,  another  step, 
strangely  short  as  far  as  progress  could  be  recorded,  had 

295 


NEW  WINE 

been  taken  in  the  great  war,  at  huge  cost  of  blood  and 
treasure. 

Among  those  who  paid  was  Captain  Lee  Saltash.  No 
one,  not  even  his  own  observer,  knew  that  he  was  hit; 
never  had  he  negotiated  a  more  perfect  landing.  As 
he  made  no  movement  to  alight,  they  at  first  thought  he 
had  fainted.  It  was  Shane  who  discovered  the  spreading 
patch  on  the  leather  coat  as  they  laid  him  on  the  grass. 

Great  things  had  "Stars"  accomplished  that  day; 
stammering  between  shock,  grief,  and  admiration,  his  ob- 
server poured  forth  the  tale  into  Shane's  ears,  fighting 
against  tears  as  he  spoke;  he  was  nothing  but  a  boy  and 
the  tension  had  been  fierce,  to  culminate  in  tragedy. 

"He  ought  to  have  the  V.C.  They  ought  to  give  him 
the  V.C.,"  he  kept  repeating. 

Shane  was  hardly  aware  that  any  one  was  speaking  to 
him.  He  knelt  beside  the  dead,  gazing  as  if  turned  to 
stone.  All  the  youthfulness  that  had  been  somehow  lost, 
disguised  in  Saltash's  prematurely  thoughtful  person- 
^ality,  had  reappeared.  He  looked  the  merest  stripling, 
lying  there  so  peacefully.  His  mechanic  had  reverently 
closed  the  glazing  eyes,  with  toilworn  fingers  tender  as  a 
woman's:  those  eyes  that  had  so  often  smiled  on  Shane 
out  of  the  gentle,  jserious  face  were  forever  closed,  but 
the  smile  was  now  on  the  lips.  Shane  would  always  think 
of  his  friend  as  he  thus  saw  him,  smiling  in  a  serenity  in- 
finitely remote,  as  if  wise  with  knowledge  secret  but  trans- 
cendently  sweet. 

He  felt  a  touch  on  his  shoulder: — 

"Here's  the  doctor,"  said  the  mechanic.  "Not  that  he 
can  be  of  any  use." 

Shane  drew  the  glove  from  the  dead  hand  and  held  it 

296 


"MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT" 

tightly  grasped  for  a  moment.  It  was  still  warm.  So 
he  said  farewell  to  his  only  friend ;  and  there  was  another 
grave  in  the  long  row;  another  cross  added  to  the  many, 
many  that  stood  in  such  dreary  and  pathetic  ranks. 

"One  of  the  best !"  It  was  the  universal  verdict  of 
all  who  had  known  "Stars."  In  a  company  of  men  where 
every  day  brings  the  gap  or  gaps  to  be  instantly  filled ; 
when  each  man  knows  that  his  turn  may  come  the  next 
hour,  nay,  the  next  moment,  there  can  be  little  room  for 
sentiment.  There  was  no  more  expended  over  the  death 
of  the  American  than  over  that  of  the  scores  of  other 
good  fellows  who  had  gone  the  same  gallant  way  no  less 
gallantly.  But  in  Shane's  heart  there  was  locked  fast 
a  sad  and  holy  memory.  When  he  had  clasped  that  poor 
insentient  hand  he  had  made  a  promise  in  his  soul: 
"Stars,  old  man,  I'll  never  forget  you,  and  I'll  mind  what 
you  said  all  my  life  long.  I'll  try  and  go  right  like  you." 


Ill 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

SHANE  fingered  uncertainly  the  texture  under  his  hand 
— a  sheet,  fine  and  smooth — a  linen  sheet!  Was  he  still 
dreaming?  He  had  been  living  in  a  singularly  confused 
world  of  dreams  lately.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
passed  a  whole  lifetime  in  the  air,  pursuing  or  pursued; 
soaring  to  breathless  heights,  dropping  to  unfathomable 
deeps,  sometimes  with  the  blasting  light,  the  crack  and 
roar  of  flame  about  him,  sometimes  all  in  the  gloom  of 
an  abysmal  night,  out  of  which  there  was  no  issue.  If 
this  was  a  dream,  it  was  a  very  nice  one.  He  lay  in  a 
quiet  place,  at  rest;  and  the  sense  of  peace  enfolded  him 
as  soothingly  as  the  cool  smooth  linen. 

"Glory  be  to  God,  if  it's  not  Heaven,  it  must  be  Limbo," 
thought  Irish  Shane.  Stretching  himself,  he  sighed,  and 
went  to  sleep. 

When  he  awoke  and  turned  languid  yet  curious  eyes 
about  him,  he  saw  that  he  was  in  a  pleasant,  spacious, 
shaded  room,  in  bed  like  any  Christian.  There  were 
three  other  beds  against  the  wall ;  in  each  of  them  a  figure 
lay,  propped  up  or  quite  recumbent.  He  shifted  his  head 
slightly — that  was  extraordinarily  difficult — and  got  an- 
other aspect  of  the  room.  Two  big  windows,  wide  open, 
with  outside  shutters  closed  through  the  slats  of  which 
long,  mellow,  golden  rays  were  piercing,  reflected  in  am- 
ber bars  on  the  painted  floor. 

298 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

By  one  of  these  windows  was  a  table,  and  on  the  table 
a  huge  bunch  of  long-stalked  crimson  roses  in  a  glass  vase. 
The  scent  of  them  came  to  Shane's  nostrils;  there  was 
another  smell  in  the  fresh  room,  too,  very  familiar  but 
less  pleasant.  And  while  he  was  searching  to  find  a  name 
for  it,  he  dozed  off  once  more. 

He  was  much  surprised  to  discover  presently  that  he 
was  being  held  under  the  shoulder  by  a  very  determined 
hand,  while,  hardly  an  inch  from  his  nose,  another  hand 
was  no  less  firmly  proffering  a  steaming  cup  of  milk. 
The  moment  he  opened  his  eyes,  the  rim  of  the  said  cup 
was  deftly  inserted  between  his  lips.  Shane  understood 
he  was  to  drink.  And,  though  he  was  not  quite  sure  that 
he  liked  having  his  mind  made  up  for  him  in  this  manner, 
he  found  himself  drinking,  before  he  could  examine  the 
point,  and  very  much  enjoying  the  process. 

"There !"  a  voice  spoke  contentedly  over  his  head.  He 
was  miraculously  laid  flat  on  a  comfortable  arrangement 
of  pillows,  and  the  next  thing  that  happened  was  that 
his  mouth  was  wiped  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby.  But  the 
napkin  rasped  against  a  stubbly  growth  of  beard  that 
certainly  was  not  infantile. 

He  put  up  his  hand  and  wondered  still  more.  Finally, 
raising  his  eyelids — why  in  the  world  should  he  feel  as 
if  he  were  altogether  made  of  lead? — he  stared  into  a  pair 
of  motherly  eyes  set  in  a  pale,  elderly  countenance,  which 
was  framed  in  a  floating  white  veil. 

"I  know  now,"  Shane  said  to  himself  seriously.  "This 
is  a  hospital,  and  it's  the  carbolic  soap  I'm  smelling." 

And  the  face,  smiling  down  at  him,  belonged  to  a  nurse. 
She  looked  so  kind  and  comforting  that  he  felt  inclined 
to  ask  her  to  let  him  hold  her  hand  till  he  went  to  sleep 

299 


NEW  WINE 

again,  as  he  used  to  hold  his  mother's  hand  when  he  was 
a  little  boy.  But  it  was  too  much  trouble  to  speak;  so 
he  closed  his  eyes  and  let  the  whole  universe  slide.  He 
did  not  dream,  he  did  not  even  have  a  sensation;  healing 
slumber  took  him  and  folded  him  right  away  into  her  pro- 
foundest  mystery  of  oblivion. 

That  night  he  spoke  for  the  first  time  for  three  weeks. 

"This  is  a  lovely  place.     Where  am  I?" 

The  nurse  bent  to  catch  the  words. '  He  had  expected 
her  to  be  less  stupid.  Then  she  answered  him,  speaking 
very  slowly  and  distinctty,  as  if  she  thought  him  stupid. 

"You  are  in  the  Venetia  Hospital." 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Shane. 

Venetia !  The  word  had  started  something  vibrating 
in  his  head  with  a  dreadful  pain.  He  was  not  clear  why, 
but  he  knew  that  it  was  wrong,  out  of  all  reason,  some- 
how desperately  bad  and  dangerous  for  him  to  be  in  a 
place  that  was  called  Venetia.  "Not  that,  not  that !"  he 
cried. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  A  hand  swiftly  went  from  his 
head  to  his  wrist.  "Try  and  be  calm.  There's  nothing 
to  upset  you.  Don't  you  like  being  in  hospital?  It  is 
to  make  you  well.  You  are  getting  well.  You  said  just 
now  yourself  it  was  a  lovely  place." 

"But  not  Venetia!"  His  blue  eyes  blazed  out  of  his 
drawn  face. 

"No,  no,  not  Venetia!"  The  voice  was  soothing. 
"That  was  a  mistake.  Now,  please,  let  me  just  put  the 
thermometer  here,  under  your  tongue.  There,  don't  bite 
it;  lie  quite  still." 

He  lay  and  sucked  obediently. 

She  looked  so  really  good,  Shane  thought,  she  would 

300 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

never  tell  a  lie.  This  was,  after  all,  a  lovely  place — so 
long  as  it  was  not  Venetia.  And  the  cup  of  stuff  they 
had  just  given  him  made  him  feel  singularly  satisfied. 
He  was  hardly  conscious  of  the  thermometer's  removal, 
but  presently  heard,  as  in  a  dream,  a  man's  voice  and 
a  woman's,  talking. 

"No  temperature.  But  dreadfully  excited.  Very 
disappointing,"  the  pleasant  tones  he  already  knew  were 
saying.  A  masculine  growl  answered:  "Concussion: 
shock;  only  to  be  expected — nothing  to  worry  about. 
The  sedative  if  he  continues  restless." 

Shane  was  hunting  for  the  meaning  of  the  word  seda- 
tive when  he  dropped  again  like  a  stone  into  the  well  of 
oblivion. 

The  next  morning  the  process  of  restoration  had  so 
far  advanced  that  he  found  himself  not  only  able  to  think 
consecutively,  to  piece  out  a  sequence  of  events  with  some 
success,  but  also  to  bring  the  wandering  thought  and 
unexplained  apprehension  under  some  control  of  will. 

He  could  not  recall  how  he  had  met  with  disaster.  He 
must  have  crashed.  Yes,  that  was  it,  he  had  crashed,  come 
on  his  head,  been  knocked  silly,  picked  up  and  brought  to 
hospital.  Quite  a  fairly  long  time  ago  too,  it  was  evident ; 
for,  the  outside  shutters  being  flung  back  this  morning, 
he  could  see  orange  and  yellow  of  turning  leaves  flutter 
against  the  blue  sky.  The  last  thing  he  remembered  was 
full  summer,  and  here  was  autumn.  But,  though  he  had 
no  recollection  even  of  the  flight  that  had  preceded  catas- 
trophe, he  had  a  vivid  impression  that  last  night  some  one 
(the  long-faced  sister  over  there  who  had  just  relieved 
the  night  nurse)  had  told  him  that  he  was  in  the  Venetia 
Hospital.  It  disquieted  him  with  a  recurrent  sense  of 

301 


NEW  WINE 

painful  speculation.  Tacitly,  however,  he  came  to  an 
agreement  with  himself  not  to  pursue  the  question  till  he 
was  strong  enough  to  deal  with  it.  Just  now  he  was  too 
utterly  weak. 

The  sister,  as  she  came  round  to  his  cot,  professed  her- 
self highly  gratified  with  his  condition,  and  suggested  that 
he  might  like  an  orderly  to  shave  him.  "Make  you  feel 
more  like  yourself,"  she  opined.  Shane  was  ready  to 
agree.  It  annoyed  his  feebleness  to  hear  and  feel  the  un- 
wonted rasping  of  cheek  and  chin  against  the  linen. 

Sister  Marley  surveyed  him  with  admiration,  when  the 
operation  had  been  completed. 

"Well,  you  do  look  nice,  Lord  Kilmore!  I  am  pleased 
to  think  we've  got  you  so  well,  just  to-day,  when  Com- 
mandant has  come  back — yes,  she  came  back  last  night. 
Captain  Vesey." 

She  turned  to  the  occupant  of  the  next  bed,  who  had 
made  an  eager  exclamation.  Shane  had  not  been  able  to 
muster  any  interest  in  his  room  companions  yet ;  but  now, 
propped  up  by  additional  pillows,  he  could  fling  a  glance 
at  his  neighbor  without  too  much  exertion.  He  saw  a 
flushed,  very  boyish  face,  tossed  yellow  hair.  "The  poor 
fellow's  gone  on  Commandant,  whoever  she  is !"  The 
humorous  thought  came  to  him.  His  eyelids  drooped; 
it  was  a  nice  clean  feeling  to  be  smooth-shaven  again,  but 
the  process  had  confoundedly  tired  him.  The  next  mo- 
ment he  started,  every  nerve  alive. 

"Yes,  Captain  Vesey,"  the  sister  was  saying.  "Lady 
Hobson  is  sure  to  come  in  presently.  She  is  looking  splen- 
did after  her  rest,  I  am  glad  to  say." 

Shane  clasped  his  emaciated  hands  tightly  together, 
and  pressed  his  lips  to  keep  the  fierce  words  back.  It  was 

302 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

a  trap,  an  infernal  trap !  But  he  must  face  it  now  as  best 
he  could. 

A  flash  of  searing  memory  brought  back  the  words  with 
which  she  had  dismissed  him  from  her  life,  the  very  tone, 
the  twist  of  her  lip :  "I  thought  you  were  a  gentleman ; 
you  are  nothing  but  an  Irish  peasant." 

He  would  show  her  how  an  Irish  peasant  could  behave, 
even  when  he  was  but  half  alive  and  practically  at  her 
mercy.  He  must  be  polite — oh,  yes !  he  would  be  polite 
as  to  the  merest  acquaintance;  but  any  attempt  on  her 
part  to  reproach,  or  appeal,  even  to  allude  to  bygone 
folly,  he  would  meet  with  silence.  A  man  can  always  be 
silent,  Shane  knew  that;  at  any  rate,  he  could. 

He  heard  the  soft  modulation  of  her  voice,  before  she 
came  into  his  line  of  vision ;  and,  in  spite  of  his  resolution, 
it  started  a  pulse  of  anger.  How  had  she  beguiled  and 
misled  him  with  those  accents  of  music !  It  was  singular, 
but  characteristic  of  his  race,  that  the  moment  of  disillu- 
sion should  have  been,  with  him,  the  moment  of  entire 
repudiation. 

There  was  no  echo  in  him  of  past  tenderness;  it  was 
the  resentment  that  woke  afresh.  He  lay  listening.  They 
were  going  round  the  beds  in  a  little  group — doctor, 
nurse,  and  Commandant.  Now  she  had  reached  his  neigh- 
bor, the  boy  with  the  rough,  fair  hair;  but  he  would  not 
turn  his  eyes.  He  stared  through  the  window  opposite 
at  the  wine-stained  leaves  that  flickered  and  trembled 
against  the  blue  of  the  sky.  With  contempt  he  heard 
the  stammered  greeting  of  the  youth  whom  the  sister  had 
addressed  as  Captain  Vesey.  He  had  himself  been,  once, 
even  such  a  fool  as  this !  He  heard,  too,  the  eager  defer- 
ence with  which  both  Sister  Marley  and  the  doctor,  who 

303 


NEW  WINE 

was  not  given  (as  he  had  found  out  in  twenty-four  hours 
of  lucidity)  to  soft  speech,  addressed  her.  She  had  be- 
witched them  all,  it  was  the  Angel  of  Light  they  thought 
her! 

A  minute  later  three  faces  were  looking  down  at  him; 
the  sister's  unconsciously  softened  at  sight  of  his  wan 
looks,  but  Venetia,  incredibly  unchanged,  gazed  upon  him 
with  a  countenance  of  marble  placidity. 

"This  is  Lord  Kilmore,  Lady  Hobson,"  began  Sister 
Marley,  then  in  her  sprightliest  accents,  "you  may  remem- 
ber how  bad  we  thought  him  when  he  was  brought  here 
just  before  you  went  away  so  worn  out.  I  always  will 
believe  that  it  was  those  two  nights  you  insisted  on  sitting 
up  with  him  that  quite  broke  you  down.  You  couldn't 
know  anything  about  it,"  she  went  on,  addressing  Shane. 
"But  we  were  dreadfully  short-handed ;  and  it  was  a  ques- 
tion whether  you  would  pull  through.  And  Commandant 
never  thinks  of  herself." 

"Lord  Kilmore  and  I  know  each  other,"  said  Venetia, 
smiling. 

"Then  you'd  enjoy  a  little  chat."  The  sister  became 
very  bustling.  "I'd  be  glad  to  take  Dr.  Smithson  into  the 
next  ward.  I  don't  quite  like  the  look  of  the  Colonel's 
arm  this  morning." 

She  pushed  a  chair  forward  officiously,  and  Venetia  sat 
down  at  the  end  of  the  bed.  Outlined  against  the  bright 
window-square,  her  face  was  in  shadow,  between  the  float- 
ing wings  of  her  white  veil,  nevertheless  Shane  knew, 
grudgingly,  that  she  had  never  been  more  lovely.  The 
nurse's  garb  is  becoming  to  most  women.  It  suited  Vene- 
tia Hobson's  personality  with  a  kind  of  fantastic  appro- 
priateness; so  exquisitely  did  she  seem  the  ministering 

304 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

angel,  so  all-womanly,  pure,  tender,  quiet,  and  composed, 
that  it  was  little  wonder  the  fair-haired  boy  should  glower 
on  Shane  with  miserable  eyes  of  envy. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while ;  Shane  set  his  teeth,  he 
was  not  going  to  be  the  one  to  break  it.  Then  she  spoke. 

"It  is  quite  true  that  I  sat  beside  you — two  whole 
nights.  Oh,  there  is  nothing  to  thank  me  for!"  But 
Shane  had  not  spoken.  "I  could  not  do  anything  for  you. 
No  one  could.  If  you  had  died" — she  clasped  her  hands ; 
her  measured  tones  so  pitched  that  none  but  he  could  hear, 

suddenly  broke  on  passion — "I  should  have "  She 

stopped  and  bent  towards  him  to  whisper,  "Oh,  how  I 
prayed  you  should  not  die  without  having  forgiven  me!" 

This  was  so  unexpected  that  Shane's  tight-folded  lips 
parted  in  amazement.  He  stared  at  the  downcast  face, 
pearl-like  in  the  shadow,  and  could  find  no  word.  She 
went  on,  raising  her  eyes ;  their  expression  seemed  to  him 
altered;  deeply  melancholy,  but  no  longer  haunted. 

"You  thought  I  was  one  that  could  not  pray,  but  you 

taught  me.  You — the  thought  of  you "  she  hesitated, 

picking  her  words  with  a  timidity  that  in  her  was  ex- 
quisite. "Don't  think  that  I  am  going  back  on  the  past 
— no,  indeed,  that  is  not  the  way  of  atonement!  I  have 
been  leading  a  different  life.  Oh,  what  I  have  seen,  what 
I  have  felt  since  I  took  up  my  work  here !  .  .  .  But  one 
thing  I  must  tell  you,  I  am  now  reconciled  to  the  Church 
-to  God " 

She  paused  again.  Still  Shane  did  not  utter  a  word. 
She  sighed,  leaned  closer  to  him,  and  speaking  still 
lower : — 

"I  know  what  wrong  I  did."  There  were  tears  in  her 
voice.  "I  know  how  nearly  I  dragged  you  down  to  wrong 

305 


NEW  WINE 

too.  I  deceived  you — forgive  me.  I  want  to  be  good 
now.  I  want  to  do  right.  Say  only  those  three  words 
— Shane — Lord  Kilmore,  you  have  been  very  near  death, 
it  must  make  you  less  hard,  less  angry — say:  'I  forgive 
you.'  Oh !  listen  to  me,  believe  me — I  will  never  talk  of 
this  again,  so  long  as  you  are  here,  and,  when  you  leave, 
we  are  not  likely  ever  to  meet  again  in  this  world.  I  only 
want  to  be  able  to  go  on  my  lonely  road  in  peace." 

He  could  not  altogether  follow  her,  for  his  head  spun 
with  weakness;  but  of  one  or  two  phrases  he  caught  the 
surprising  meaning.  She  had  come  back  to  God;  she 
wanted  to  do  right.  And  she  was  craving  forgiveness — of 
him! 

To  do  right,  "to  go  for  the  right."  One  whom  he  had 
loved,  he  remembered  now,  it  was  Saltash — dear  old 
"Stars" — had  told  him  that  nothing  else  mattered.  Stars 
had  always  done  right  and  that  was  why  there  had  been 
so  wonderful  a  smile  on  his  dead  face. 

"I  must  forgive,"  he  said  loudly,  more  to  himself  than 
to  her. 

She  rose  and  bent  over  him  with  a  soft  flutter  of  veil. 

"Hush !"  Her  finger  was  on  her  lip,  it  was  the  old  mys- 
terious gesture.  Something  in  Shane  shuddered  from  her. 

"You  promised,"  he  cried,  "you  wouldn't  be  going  back 
on  the  past!"  The  spasm  of  aversion  which  seized  his 
soul  was  written  on  his  white  face.  She  straightened  her- 
self. 

"I  must  beg  you,  Lord  Kilmore,  not  to  distress  your- 
self. All  we  want  is  that  you  should  get  well  as  quickly  as 
possible.  And  you  will  soon  be  well — very  soon!"  She 
nodded  at  him  with  the  smile  of  the  nurse  upon  the  patient. 
She  looked  quite  different  from  anything  he  ever  remem- 

306 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

bered  of  her.     The  next  moment  she  moved  away,  and  he 
heard  her  murmur  as  she  stood  by  the  neighboring  bed : — 

"Wandering  just  a  little,  still,  poor  fellow.  But  we 
must  have  patience." 

He  turned  his  head  irritably  to  the  wall.  A  slow  tear 
of  weakness  trickled  down  his  cheek.  He  longed  for 
Moira. 

She  came  back  to  the  ward  again  that  afternoon,  and 
sat  in  turn  beside  every  patient.  He  was  surprised,  re- 
lieved, and  at  the  same  time,  perhaps,  a  little  discomfited 
to  find  how  unfounded  was  the  dread  with  which  he  had 
seen  her  approach.  Not  only  did  she  obey  his  demand 
that  the  past  should  be  buried ;  but,  with  an  art  of  which 
she  was  consummate  mistress,  adopted  a  perfect  tone  of 
kindly  acquaintanceship  which  set  them  further  apart. 

With  ethereal  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  her  delicate 
pale  face  seeming  almost  to  bring  a  light  of  its  own  into 
the  shadowed  room,  where  the  green  shutters  were  again 
drawn,  she  sat,  very  still,  and  pleasantly  discoursed. 

She  told  him  he  was  in  an  old  French  chateau,  the  use 
of  which  she  had  had  the  good  fortune  to  obtain  for  her 
hospital.  She  had  not  been  able  to  rest  till  she  had  done 
some  work  for  her  country  and  the  splendid  soldiers.  Her 
voice  trembled  when  she  spoke  of  the  suffering,  the  hero- 
ism, the  patience  of  the  wounded;  but  she  was  reticent; 
only,  as  it  were,  skimming  across  depths  of  feeling  with 
fugitive  wings. 

Did  he  know  that  Val  Blythe  had  been  killed?  Yes, 
poor  Val!  He  had  joined  at  once,  but  not  liking  trench- 
work,  had  managed  to  get  on  the  staff.  Unfortunately 
his  General's  headquarters  had  been  blown  to  pieces  and 
poor  old  Val  with  them. 

307 


Shane,  who  had  turned  his  eyes  away  from  the  spectacle 
of  her  serene  loveliness,  with  an  inarticulate  sense  that 
even  to  acknowledge  it  was  renewed  treachery,  cast  a 
startled  look  at  her.  Val,  that  fritter!  the  creature  who 
played  through  life  as  if  there  were  no  such  considerations 
as  souls  at  all,  to  be  hurled  before  the  judgment  seat, 
without  an  instant  in  which  to  cry  for  mercy ! 

"Good  God !"  he  exclaimed ;  and  then,  to  himself,  whis- 
pered his  Irish  prayer:  "The  Lord  have  mercy  on  him!" 

"Yes,  poor  Val !"  Lady  Hobson  paid  her  volatile  friend 
the  tribute  of  a  faint  sigh.  "Who  else  would  you  care  to 
hear  about?  Oh,  Colonel  Darcy,  General  now."  She 
laughed  softly.  "He  did  very  good  work,  getting  a  Kitch- 
ener division  together;  and  then  they  sent  him  home  to 
make  room  for  a  younger  man.  There  never  was  any  one 
so  angry  to  be  alive  as  General  Darcy  at  this  moment. 
And  Lady  Kenneth — you  remember  her?  'Lady  Ken,' 
as  they  called  her — she's  running  a  hut  in  Belgium.  The 
men  love  her,  she's  so  jolly  with  them.  And  Mr.  Browne 
— I'm  afraid  he  is  rather  a  pacifist.  He  says  war  is  the 
death  of  art.  Of  course  he  is  over  age,  but  he  has  had 
a  splendid  time,  buying  up  Chinese  treasures.  You  see 
nothing  can  get  across  to  America  now.  As  for  Tim"- 
she  paused,  as  if  to  let  the  perfect  naturalness  of  her 
accents  sink  in — "as  for  Tim,"  she  repeated,  "he  joined 
the  Naval  Reserve,  but  he  was  invalided  home,  poor  old 
boy !  And  the  bulldogs  are  quite  well."  She  made  a  sin- 
gle gesture  of  both  hands:  "Now  you  are  au  courant." 

Then  she  got  up,  remarked  that  the  doctor  was  ex- 
tremely pleased  with  his  condition,  and  that  they  would 
soon  send  him  to  "Blighty";  she  dropped  him  a  smile  as 

308 


VENETIA  HOSPITAL 

conventional  as  her  soldier-slang.  "Good-by  for  the 
present,  Lord  Kilmore,"  and  drifted  from  him. 

Shane  remained  absolutely  puzzled.  He  was  of  the  type 
of  man  who  would  never  understand  that  the  artful  woman 
has  as  many  colors  as  the  chameleon.  Perhaps  he  was 
too  impulsive  to  realize  shades  at  all:  things  to  him  were 
either  black  or  white ;  people  were  good  or  bad ;  he  trusted 
with  his  whole  heart,  or  with  his  whole  heart  condemned. 
What  did  she  mean  by  telling  him,  in  the  morning,  that 
she  was  reconciled  to  the  Church,  and,  in  the  afternoon, 
speaking  of  Sir  Timothy  with  all  the  placid  proprietor- 
ship of  the  wife?  Then  a  thought  struck  his  innocence 
and  satisfied  the  uncomfortable  speculation  of  a  still  sick 
brain.  Her  first  husband  was  dead,  she  had  been  able  to 
put  herself  straight ! 

He  was  sustained  in  this  opinion  when,  on  subsequent 
days,  he  found  that  she  certainly  seemed  to  be  on  very 
friendly  terms  with  the  R.C.  chaplain,  who  spoke  of  her 
indeed  to  Shane  himself  as  "one  of  God's  best." 

As  days  went  by  and  he  found  that  her  attitude  re- 
mained unconcernedly  friendly ;  that  never  by  a  hint,  by  a 
look,  by  so  much  as  a  sigh,  did  she  infringe  her  promise ; 
that,  moreover,  she  said  her  rosary  at  odd  times  in  pensive 
corners,  and  otherwise  appeared  to  practice  her  religion, 
he  began  to  believe  that,  whatever  way  the  miracle  had 
been  accomplished,  there  was  transformation  in  her  soul. 

Nevertheless,  he  was  not  at  ease  in  her  company;  he 
counted  the  days  and  the  hours  till  his  release,  not  only 
because  he  intended  his  leave  to  bring  him  to  Clenane  and 
Moira,  but  because  it  would  deliver  him  from  Venetia.  To 
breathe  the  same  air  as  Venetia  must  always  disquiet  him. 

When  the  day  of  parting  came  she  displayed  an  admi- 

309 


NEW  WINE 

rable  absence  of  emotion.     Sweet,  almost  maternal  as  was 
her  farewell,  it  was  markedly  detached. 

She  stood  on  the  steps  with  a  group  of  nurses  and  two 
or  three  officers  more  or  less  patched  up,  to  speed  his  de- 
parture. As  the  car  drove  off  from  the  armoried  stone 
porch,  he  caught  a  last  glimpse  of  her;  already  she  was 
looking  away,  as  if  his  existence  was  forgotten.  Drawing 
a  deep  breath,  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  over  and  done 
with  at  last ;  and  he  prayed  God  he  might  never  lay  eyes 
on  her  face  again. 


IV 


HOME-COMING 

THERE  was  but  one  passenger  to  alight  on  the  little  de- 
serted platform;  indeed  the  train  would  not  have  stopped 
at  all  had  he  not  given  notice  at  the  Dublin  terminus. 

The  station  was  set,  solitary,  on  the  edge  of  the  stony 
fields;  for  the  town,  which  once  had  its  own  importance, 
lies  away,  as  if  bent  on  keeping  itself  apart  with  the  pride 
of  the  hopelessly  ruined.  It  was  a  still  evening,  just  on 
sunset,  full  of  the  autumn  melancholy  which  is,  somehow, 
so  curiously  intensified  in  Ireland.  The  sky  was  pale  save 
for  the  orange  bar  in  the  west.  A  few  thin  clouds  drifted 
low,  looking  almost  as  if  they  would  be  caught  by  the  trees 
that  proclaimed  the  marches  of  great  demesnes;  wisps  of 
mist  trailed  here  and  there  over  cultivated  stretches, 
creeping  upwards  to  join  the  sisterhood  overhead. 

The  land  spread  to  the  vision  huge  bare  spaces,  hardly 
undulating.  The  river  ran,  primrose  pale,  in  lazy  serpen- 
tine loops,  catching  in  its  breast  for  one  short  span  the 
vivid  sunset  bar.  The  road  which  the  traveler  was  about 
to  take  ran  very  straight  and  white  westward,  marked 
on  either  side  by  the  glimmering  gray  of  its  stone  walls, 
save  where  the  rich  man's  woods  caught  it  and  hid  it  for 
that  mile  which  seemed,  from  where  the  traveler  stood, 
but  the  length  of  inches.  Against  the  sky  the  Clare  moun- 
tains were  purple  black ;  they  and  the  red  sun,  its  reflec- 

311 


NEW  WINE 

tion  in  the  water,  and  the  indigo  blue  of  the  band  of  woods 
were  the  only  colors  in  the  wide  gray  landscape. 

Shane  gazed  with  a  full  heart;  here  was  the  face  of 
home! 

The  porter  who  picked  up  his  suit-case  looked  surly 
enough  at  his  khaki  and  the  ribbon  on  his  breast,  and  did 
not  recognize  him.  Johnnie  Callaghan  had  always  been 
a  bit  of  a  rebel.  Anyhow,  Shane  would  have  felt  no  desire 
to  recall  himself  to  memory;  it  was  not  the  moment, 
neither  was  his  mood  for  conversation. 

"Can  I  get  an  outside  car,  do  you  think?" 

"A  car,  is  it?  You  cannot,  then,  Captain.  Them  as 
wants  cars  has  a  right  to  be  ordering  them  beforehand. 
What  would  cars  be  doing  waiting  for  the  chance  of  the 
train  stopping  one  odd  time  in  a  week,  maybe?" 

"Here,  give  me  that  case."  Shane  took  it  from  the 
grimy  hand.  "I'll  get  a  car  for  myself  at  the  town." 

He  had  acquired  a  military  authority  of  manner  and, 
though  he  softened  the  unconscious  insult  with  half  a 
crown,  the  patriotic  porter  looked  darkly  after  him,  and 
began  under  his  breath  to  curse  him  and  his  uniform,  and 
the  country  who  paid  for  it,  and  the  cause  he  was  serving, 
with  Hibernian  fluency  and  richness  of  epithet.  Suddenly 
he  broke  off;  something  in  the  poise  of  the  tall  figure 
running  down  the  incline,  in  the  swing  of  the  shoulders, 
the  spring  of  the  gait,  struck  a  chord. 

"Begorrah !"  cried  the  man,  "if  it's  not  me  brave  boy 
the  Earl  of  Kilmore  himself — me  curse  on  him  all  the 
same  for  an  ungrateful  young  villain !" 

Through  the  leprous  desolation  of  the  town  Shane  went 
unrecognized ;  indeed  he  was  not  known  even  at  the  Com- 
mercial Hotel  which  supplied  the  station  car  where  the 

312 


HOME-COMING 

departure  of  Tomsey  Clancy  had  made  room  for  & 
stranger.  This  individual  agreed  effusively  to  drive  the 
officer  as  far  as  Clenane  for  only  double  the  current  price. 
On  the  way  he  showed  himself  excessively  curious  to  ascer- 
tain the  destination  for  which  the  traveler  might  be  event- 
ually bound,  and  suggested,  one  after  the  other,  the  names 
of  all  the  big  places  in  the  district. 

"It'll  be  at  Joyce's  you'll  be  expected,  Captain?  Och, 
then,  sure,  it's  at  Lord  Edwards — but  Clenane's  a  trifle 
out  of  your  honor's  way.  Maybe  I'm  not  in  it,  maybe 
it's  at  Kilcurris  they're  expecting  you?  It's  the  grand  old 
lady  she  is,  that  same  old  madam?  Sure  I  was  hearing 
now,  she  had  a  pair  of  great  nephews  in  the  war 

Shane  cut  him  short. 

"I've  engaged  you  to  drive  me  to  Clenane  village." 
Then,  fearing  to  betray  his  identity  to  the  local  gossip,  he 
added,  with  perfect  truth:  "The  fact  is,  they're  not  ex- 
pecting me  where  I'm  going,  and  I'll  just  have  to  pass 
the  night  where  I  can." 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  exclaimed  the  jarvey,  pulling  his 
shambling  mare  so  violently  to  a  standstill  that  her  legs 
flew  out  in  every  direction,  "it's  no  entertainment  for  the 
likes  of  you  you'll  be  finding  at  Clenane !  Sure  it's  but  the 
wan  poor  place  they  have,  and  it  Dooley's.  And  whatever 
comfort  there  was  in  it  has  gone  out  of  it  with  the  fellow 
the  widow  married,  and  him  with  the  drop  taken  morning., 
noon,  and  night !  It's  soaked  in  it  he  is.  He's  the  rale- 
sponge,  is  Clancy.  'Pon  my  word,  and  I'm  telling  you  no 
lies,  if  you  were  to  lay  a  finger  on  him,  anywheres,  it 
would  be  wet  with  the  whisky  that  'ud  come  out  of  him. 
Why  wouldn't  your  honor  now  be  going  back  to  our  little 
place?  She's  the  decent  sober  woman,  Mrs.  Morissey,  and 

SIS 


NEW  WINE 

her  with  as  good  a  feather  bed,  and  like  as  not  a  pair  of 
clean  sheets  ready " 

But  Shane  arrested  the  one-sided  tug  on  the  mare's 
hard  mouth. 

"I  must  make  the  best  of  Clenane,  for  it's  Cknane  I'm 
going  to."  The  tone  precluded  argument. 

With  a  shrug  the  driver  clacked  his  whip  and  chucked 
his  reins,  then  he  remarked  philosophically  that,  maybe, 
it  would  "be  better  than  the  trenches,  anyhow,  from  all 
accounts." 

Shane  closed  his  lips,  turning  a  severe  profile  upon 
loquacity;  and,  while  his  compatriot  secretly  relegated 
him  to  the  corner  of  his  mind  where  the  "dirty  English" 
were  execrated,  this  Irishman's  heart  swelled  with  the 
mixed  tenderness  and  melancholy  of  his  homecoming.  The 
beloved  land — how  poor  and  waste  it  opened  out  before 
him  and  how  infinitely  dear!  Ay,  every  barren  field, 
every  mile  of  rough  and  ugly  wall,  was  dear !  The  breath 
that  filled  his  lungs  had  a  savor  half  sad,  half  sweet. 
The  cry  of  the  plover,  the  long  black  flight  of  the  crows 
and  their  caws,  the  shifting  monotonies  of  the  endless  road, 
the  fading  sky  and  gathering  mystery  of  the  dusk,  all 
evoked  memories  of  a  light-hearted  past  which  were  singu- 
larly close  to  sorrow.  He  had  not  even  told  Moira  that 
he  was  returning  to  her.  Once  again  he  was  stealing  a 
march,  as  it  were,  upon  the  old  days.  He  could  hardly 
have  explained  to  himself  why  he  had  so  strong  a  desire 
to  surprise  his  love.  Perhaps  it  wcs  because  of  the  recol1- 
lection  of  that  other  return,  when  no  one  was  glad  to  see 
him  but  the  dog;  when  Father  Blake  had  warned  him  off 
from  all  he  knew  of  home,  the  poor  cluster  of  hovels  under 
every  thatched  roof  of  which  he  had  played  as  a  child; 

314 


HOME-COMING 

warned  hin»  off  from  the  farm,  and  above  all,  from  Moira. 
Perhaps  the  haunting  of  that  cold  night  made  him  dread 
the  reawakening  of  sore  feeling,  the  rebuff  which  might 
greet  an  announced  arrival. 

He  thought,  nay,  he  felt  sure,  that,  at  sudden  sight 
of  him,  Moira's  heart  would  speak,  before  doubt  could 
intervene.  He  made  a  hundred  conjectures  of  how  he 
would  find  her ;  but  always  ended  upon  a  certainty  which 
set  his  pulses  beating:  they  would  not  speak  at  all  but 
only  clasp  each  other.  And,  after  that,  nothing  would 
matter  again. 

Both  skj  and  earth  cleared  as  the  night  advanced. 
The  mists  drew  away,  and  in  airs  purified  by  an  exquisite 
touch  of  frost,  a  large  lovely  moon  rose  with  majesty  into 
the  heavens. 

Every  rod  of  the  way  was  familiar  to  Shane.  When 
the  flinging  trot  of  the  mare  brought  him  in  view  of  the 
fields  which  his  childish  feet  had  scampered  over,  time  and 
again,  he  felt  so  intolerable  a  longing  to  be  alone  and  un- 
watched,  that  he  ordered  the  astonished  driver  to  stop. 
Leaping  from  the  car,  he  handed  him  the  fare  agreed 
upon,  plus  a  substantial  tip,  and  bade  him  leave  the  port- 
manteau at  the  priest's  house. 

The  man  gasped. 

"The  priest's  house,  your  honor!  It  is  the  priest's 
house — and  is  it  that  what's  brought  you  to  Clenane?" 

There  was  a  dawning  understanding  in  the  starting 
eyeball  which  glistened  white  in  the  moonlight.  Shane 
fled,  leaping  the  loose  wall  and  cutting  across  the  bowlder- 
strewn  field  towards  a  path  he  could  have  trod  blindfold. 

Moonlight  poured  upon  the  well-known  scene  and  made 
everything  look  strange;  he  wished  there  were  not  this 

315 


NEW  WINE 

magic  silver  gleam  everywhere,  casting  a  spell  on  the  be- 
loved homeliness.  At  first  he  went  with  great  strides, 
but  presently  slackened  speed ;  a  record  "crash"  and  eight 
weeks'  hospital  come  against  a  man,  even  though  he  be  of 
such  tough  fiber  as  Shane,  even  though  he  be  driven  by 
such  indomitable  will-power. 

He  began  to  have  an  odd  sensation  that  he  was  himself 
a  part  of  the  general  strangeness.  One  evening  he  had 
gathered  wild  colts  across  this  very  moor,  and  had  known 
within  him  beating  wings  of  passionate  discontent  never 
before  experienced.  He  had  wanted,  more  than  he  had 
ever  wanted  anything  before,  to  get  away  out  of  an  exist- 
ence intolerable  in  its  limitations,  from  circumstances 
suddenly  recognized  as  degrading  to  one  of  his  blood.  He 
had  then  been  amazed  at  his  own  striving:  "What  ails 
me  at  all?"  he  had  asked  himself.  Even  with  the  thought 
of  Moira,  he  had  yearned  to  get  away.  Now  he  was  com- 
ing back  and  it  was  another  kind  of  "strangeness"  that  was 
upon  him.  Again  he  wondered  "what  ailed  him."  He 
seemed  to  himself  to  be  a  ghost  in  a  place  of  ghosts;  it 
was  as  if  the  solid  earth  had  become  unsubstantial,  as  if 
all  his  warm  hopes  must  crumble  at  a  touch,  as  does  the 
glow  of  the  turf  into  fitting  ashes.  Here  was  the  gap 
through  which  he  had  hustled  the  "mountainy"  foals.  And 
yonder,  that  fairy  vision,  fine  drawn  in  silver  against  a 
moon-flooded  sky,  was  his  own  castle,  the  ruins  of  Kilmore, 
bewitched  into  fairyland.  He  stood  still  a  moment  to 
gaze.  Then  his  heart  gave  a  joyful  leap ;  a  wisp  of  smoke 
was  stirring  in  faint  gleaming  spirals,  scarcely  perceptible 
against  the  limpid  background;  and  low  down,  out  of  a 
cavernous  dark  of  the  arch  that  cut  the  silver  walls,  shone 
a  tiny  orange  glow.  There  was  a  fire  on  his  hearth; 

316 


HOME-COMING 

there  was  light  in  his  empty  nest.  Whatever  the  omen 
might  portend  he  was  grateful  for  it. 

He  could  hear  a  dog  bark  and  rattle  his  chain  in  Daly's 
farm;  otherwise  the  night  was  so  still  that  the  sound  of 
his  own  footsteps  became  an  intrusion  on  the  silence.  Now 
Clenane  lay  beneath  him,  with  primrose  lights,  twinkling 
so  near  the  ground  that  any  one,  looking  down  on  it  as 
he  now  did,  would  think  it  a  handful  of  housheens  built 
for  the  "good  people."  There  was  not  a  glint  from  the 
priest's  house;  its  square  outline  stood  ghostly  in  the 
moonlight  with  slate  roof  painted  as  with  a  brush  dipped 
in  silver.  The  chapel  windows,  however,  glowed.  "Sure, 
it's  the  late  service  they're  having,"  thought  Shane,  and 
looked  at  his  wrist-watch.  He  wondered;  for  Clenane 
parish  had  been  wont  to  gather  round  its  hearth  at  this 
hour,  and,  save  on  some  vigil  of  great  holiday,  the  chapel 
knew  it  not  after  supper. 

Irresolute  he  paused.  If  he  were  to  go  in  there  and 
kneel  down  among  them — that  would  be  courting  the  very 
situation  he  most  desired  to  avoid.  It  was  little  likely  he 
could  get  admittance  at  the  priest's  house,  obviously 
abandoned,  for  the  moment.  And,  if  praying  was  going 
on,  Moira  would  be  on  her  knees,  that  was  certain.  He 
decided  to  lie  in  wait  for  her,  as  many  a  time  before. 
What  a  night  for  a  lovers'  meeting! 

His  heart  was  beating  tumultuously.  As  he  advanced, 
very  cautiously,  skirting  the  low  wall  of  Father  Blake's 
house,  there  rose  upon  his  ears  a  long,  melancholy  howl. 
He  stopped ;  then  almost  laughed  aloud.  A  dog  baying 
the  moon — old  Leprechaun  as  like  as  not.  He  was  not 
going  to  let  Leprechaun  be  his  first  welcomer  to-night. 

Hardly,  however,  had  he  taken  another  dozen  steps 

317 


NEW,  WINE 

when  he  was  brought  up  again  by  another  ery.  This 
time  the  blood  curdled  in  his  veins.  It  was  no  wail  of 
hound,  but  the  most  piercing  lament  that  ever  issued  from 
human  lips.  He  knew  it  well,  and  knew  what  it  meant, 
as  no  man  from  the  West  could  fail  to  know — for  whom, 
in  the  name  of  God,  were  they  keening?  Whom! 

He  never  knew  how  he  reached  the  chapel  door,  he  had 
no  eyes  for  the  couple  of  squatting  women  who  rocked 
themselves  backwards  and  forwards  in  the  little  porch ; 
he  saw  only  the  catafalque  with  its  rusty  pall  and  tar- 
nished silver  trappings,  the  great  candles,  sinister  yellow ; 
he  had  a  confused  sense  that  there  were  nuns  kneeling 
within,  and  that  there  was  weeping.  He  staggered  for- 
ward and  fell  on  his  knees  beside  the  cloaked  and  hooded 
figure  of  a  woman.  She  turned  her  head  and  he  saw  a  pale 
face,  tear-stained,  flash  into  rapture.  It  was  Moira.  She 
put  out  her  hand  and  caught  his.  Without  a  word  they 
knelt  together,  and  he  felt  as  if  life  and  strength  flowed 
into  him  from  her  strong  clasp — the  strength  and  the 
warmth  of  her  love. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  noticed  the  old  biretta  on 
the  top  of  the  coffin,  and  understood  who  it  was  that  lay 
there.  The  riot  of  joy  within  him,  the  relief  from  the 
agony  of  dread,  lest  at  this  last  moment  he  might  have 
been  robbed,  left  him  scarcely  power  of  regret.  He  knew 
that  he  would  wake  to  it,  in  a  little  while,  and  be  sorry 
that  he  had  missed  the  old  man's  blessing;  but  there  was 
a  great  sense  of  peace  about  the  placid  dead,  in  spite  of 
that  awful  keening  out  there — and  this  was  Moira's  hand 
he  was  holding;  she  was  safe,  and  she  was  his ! 

Moira  crossed  herself  and  offered  him  the  drenched 
sprig  of  yew  out  of  the  bowl  of  holy  water  in  front  of  the 

318 


HOME-COMING 

catafalque,  that  he  might  sprinkle  it.  Then  she  looked 
at  him,  with  a  sudden  wonder,  and  led  him  out  by  the 
sacristy.  Here  old  Mary,  her  face  set  in  sorrow,  grim  as 
stone,  was  stitching  at  a  black  cope,  by  the  light  of  a 
candle.  At  sight  of  him  she  clapped  her  hands  together. 

"Glory  be  to  God — it's  Master  Shane!  How  did  you 
know,  how,  in  the  name  of  God,  did  you  know?  And  him 
took  sudden  on  the  very  altar  steps !" 

"How  did  you  know?"  The  wonder  increased  in 
Moira's  gaze. 

"I  didn't  know,"  Shane  answered  vaguely.  He  could 
not  focus  his  thoughts  upon  his  old  dead  friend,  they  were 
concentrated  on  the  living. 

"You  didn't  know,  but  you  were  sint !"  cried  old  Mary. 
"It  was  the  will  of  the  Almighty  that  you  should  be  at 
his  burying,  who  had  the  father's  heart  for  you.  Who, 
but  he,  loved  you?"  she  went  on,  again  striking  her  hands 
together.  "Wasn't  your  name  the  first  after  that  of  his 
Maker's  morning  and  night?  Too  much  he  loved  you, 
blessed  saint  that  he  is,  this  moment,  smiling  down  at  you 
from  heaven !  'It's  too  fond  I  am  of  him,  Mary,'  he'd 
say  to  me,  and  hit  his  breast  on  it.  Ochone,  what'll  we 
do  without  him  at  all!" 

The  stony  fixity  of  her  face  broke  up ;  she  waved  them 
from  the  sight  of  her  grief  with  knotted  hands  and  bent 
again  over  the  torn  cope. 

Moira  drew  Shane  out  into  the  churchyard.  All  was 
very  still  in  the  placid  radiance.  Two  or  three  slanting 
tombstones  and,  here  and  there,  a  stone  cross  shone  white, 
casting  black  shadows.  The  grass  spread  pearly  gray 
and  spangled  over  the  mounds  of  the  quiet  sleepers.  Be- 
tween the  new  dead  within  the  chapel  and  the  long  dead 

319 


NEW  WINE 

without,  Shane  clasped  the  love  of  his  life.  It  was  a 
strange  place  and  a  strange  meeting,  but  to  him  all  was 
suddenly  natural,  beautifully  home-like.  He  was  no  longer 
as  one  fey  under  an  uncanny  spell;  he  had  fallen  back 
into  his  own  place,  and  that  was  Moira's  love. 

"It's  the  will  of  God,"  said  he,  repeating  Mary's  words, 
as  he  kissed  her. 

She  took  him  presently  to  Honor,  who  fell  upon  his 
neck  in  a  rapture,  and  then  nearly  curtseyed  herself 
through  her  mud  floor  in  apologies.  She  wept  with  joy 
to  see  him,  and  wept  with  sorrow  for  the  occasion ;  she, 
too,  had  no  other  idea  than  that  it  was  to  bury  his  rever- 
ence that  he  had  returned. 

When  he  told  her  that  he  had  come  back  to  marry 
Moira,  there  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands  and  a  min- 
gling of  laughter  and  tears,  and  blessing,  all  over  again. 
Little  did  she  think  when  she  saw  the  darling  girl  go  by 
so  bowed  with  sorrow,  wrapped  in  her  mother's  cloak — 
many  was  the  day  she  had  seen  Biddy  Daly  wearing 
that  same  cloak,  and  it  her  own  mother's  again,  when  she 
was  not  as  old  as  Moira! — little  did  she  think  when  she 
went  by  in  that  same  cloak  that  her  mourning  was  to  be 
turned  into  joy! 

"And  is  it  up  to  your  Da's  you're  bringing  Master 
Shane — his  lordship,  I  should  be  saying?  Or  is  it  to  his 
own  place?  What's  that  you're  saying,  me  darlin'  boy? 
It's  your  own  place  you'd  rather  go  to.  It's  quiet  you 
want  to  be  this  night  and  not  have  all  the  folk  roaring 
and  bawling  about  you.  Glory  be  to  God,  then,  isn't  it 
the  greatest  bit  of  luck  that  to-day's  me  day  for  lighting 
the  fire,  up  at  the  castle !  It's  the  care  of  the  world  I've 
been  taking  of  your  little  housheen,  Master  Shane — my 

320 


HOME-COMING 

lord.  And  it's  a  bit  of  soda  bread  I  had  ready  to  bring 
down  to  old  Mary  and  the  half-dozen  eggs,  and  the  love- 
liest piece  of  streaky  you  ever  saw;  but  sure  she  wouldn't 
be  grudging  it  to  your  lordship.  You  can  leave  it  to  me, 
alanna."  Honor  turned  her  fine  countenance  glowing  with 
pride  upon  Moira:  "Sure  there  isn't  any  one  knows  his 
taste  as  I  do !" 

But  Shane's  taste  for  the  moment  was  to  be  with  one 
only.  He  begged  Honor  to  despatch  her  eldest  urchin  to 
fetch  his  case  at  Dooley's ;  then,  leaving  her  to  follow  with 
her  provisions,  he  went  out  again  into  the  night  with 
Moira. 

"I'll  go  as  far  as  the  castle  with  you,"  said  she. 

"Let  it  be  by  the  short  cut,  then,"  he  rejoined.  "I 
don't  want  the  people  after  me." 

Their  hearts  were  overcharged  for  speech.  He  took 
her  hand,  warm  from  the  shelter  of  her  cloak,  in  his  cold 
grasp,  and  held  it  as  if  he  could  never  let  it  go.  How 
often  had  they  stepped  thus,  hand  in  hand  together, 
in  the  old  childish  days !  There  was  no  turmoil  in  this 
love  to-night,  but  peace,  a  kind  of  brimming  serenity,  of 
grateful  happiness,  which  filled  them  both  so  utterly  that 
silence  seemed  the  only  possible  communion.  Once  on  the 
way  she  spoke,  when  they  stopped  at  the  top  of  the  ascent, 
both  panting  a  little. 

"When  I  got  that  post-card  to  say  you  were  hurt,  and 
then  nothing  for  the  long  weeks — oh,  Shane!" 

"I'm  here  for  you  now." 

Looking  at  her,  he  thought  her  tender  face  in  the  moon- 
light, the  most  beautiful  thing  he  had  ever  seen.  They 
went  on  again  more  slowly;  and  when  they  came  to  the 


NEW  WINE 

broken  arch,  she  left  him,  blessing  him,  even  as  with  sweet 
lips  she  kissed  him. 

Leprechaun  stepped  into  the  stone  cottage  after  Honor 
with  the  bored  air  of  an  elderly  gentleman  forced  to  leave 
his  comfortable  arm-chair  of  an  evening  for  some  frivol- 
ous reason.  He  had  lost  the  exuberance  of  youth  to 
gain  the  mistrust  of  years.  Shane  he  passed  without 
apparent  recognition,  gazing  at  him  with  inscrutable 
brown  eyes ;  but  the  room  was  familiar  and  he  went  round 
it,  sniffing.  Presently,  as  Shane  sat,  watching  him,  the 
setter  nosed  his  way  to  those  military  boots  on  his  master's 
legs,  which  he  investigated  conscientiously  until,  some 
chord  of  memory  touched,  he  lifted  his  old  head  and  broke 
into  a  sudden  cry  in  which  there  was  as  much  grief  and 
reproach  as  joy. 

"Yes,  it  is  myself  that's  back  with  you,  old  fellow!" 
cried  Shane,  and  caught  the  grizzling  head  between  his 
hands. 

But  Leprechaun  drew  away  to  lie  down,  out  of  reach, 
with  grieving  eyes  still  upon  him.  "You  sent  me  from 
you  again,  last  time  I  got  you  back,"  he  seemed  to  say. 
revolving  injury  in  his  canine  heart. 

"But  it's  for  good  this  time !"  promised  Shane,  who  un- 
derstood. 

It  was  late  before  he  could  get  rid  of  Honor,  who, 
shaken  out  of  all  her  dignity  by  the  great  eyents  in  the 
parish,  was  moved  to  unwonted  loquacity. 

Indeed  she  seemed  to  consider  it  incumbent  to  dilate 
with  circumstance  not  only  upon  all  the  occurrences  in 
Clenane  since  his  departure,  but  upon  the  feelings  aroused 
by  them  in  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  breasts.  The 
anguish  she  had  felt  on  being  turned  out  of  her  little  home 

322 


HOME-COMING 

and  parted  from  her  children,  an  anguish  only  eonunem- 
surate  with  that  endured  when  she  had  seen  her  lovely 
pig  dragged  shrieking  from  its  stye,  to  satisfy  the  rapacity 
of  Conran — might  the  blight  of  heaven  fall  upon  him, 
and  his  black  heart,  his  styes  and  his  fields,  his  shop  and 
his  stores,  his  children  and  his  children's  children,  for  the 
wrong  he  had  wrought  upon  the  widow  and  the  orphan ! 
And  might  every  blessing  be  showered  upon  him  who  had 
come  to  their  rescue! 

Mrs.  Keown  tactfully  passed  over  the  interim  period 
during  which  she  had  probably  come  very  near  to  cursing 
with  equal  eloquence  the  black  heart  of  Kilmore,  and  went 
on  to  expound  the  triumphant  raptures  of  her  reinstate- 
ment as  a  woman  of  property,  on  the  restitution  of  her 
two  "little  byes,"  her  home,  her  pig,  and  her  hens.  Then 
came  the  account  of  the  doctor  and  his  changed  household, 
and  an  unctuous  description  of  the  various  ladies  who 
thought  they  might  fitly  console  him  for  the  loss  of  poor 
Miss  Molloy,  "May  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her  soul  for 
a  rale  ould  crab!" 

Shane,  sitting  in  his  arm-chair,  only  half  listened.  She 
ministered  to  him  with  simple  fare,  which  he  thought  the 
most  delicious  he  had  ever  tasted.  It  was  not  until  Moira's 
name  fell  from  her  lips  that  his  attention  became  awakened. 

If  ever  there  were  goodness  and  beauty  on  earth,  accord- 
ing to  Mrs  Keown,  they  were  embodied  in  Moira.  It  is 
probable  that  Shane's  return  to  his  intention  having  been 
proclaimed  to  her  that  night,  praise  of  his  choice  would 
not  in  any  case  have  been  lacking,  but  the  warm  convic- 
tion which  rang  in  her  words,  found  its  way  to  the  lorer's 
heart.  No  wonder  that  Mr  Clery,  for  as  grand  as  he 
was,  had  wanted  to  have  her !  Had  he  not  waited  for  her 

323 


NEW  WINE 

over  the  four  year  and  only  took  up  with  that  "yalla 
haired  one  out  of  Dublin"  when  even  Danny  Blake  himself 
told  him  he'd  better  give  it  up  ? 

"Sure  it  isn't  for  the  like  of  him  she  is !  Wasn't  it  cut 
out  she  was  to  be  the  friend  of  the  poor — to  shine  like  a 
meek  lily  out  of  a  high  place?  And  what  does  it  matter 
at  all  that  she  is  only  the  daughter  of  Farmer  Blake,  and 
you  the  grand  Earl?  Isn't  she  as  good  a  lady —  '  Mrs. 
Keown  paused  on  a  sucking  breath ;  her  eyes,  somber  and 
deep,  fixed  on  the  mental  vision.  "Och!"  she  went  on  sud- 
denly, "what  am  I  talking  about?  Isn't  she  far  beyond 
that,  the  creature?  Who  would  be  thinking  of  such  a 
thing  at  all  about  Moira?  You'd  never  be  asking  what 
she  was,  oncet  you'd  looked  into  her  face."  These  words 
came  back  to  Shane  as  he  lingered  by  his  hearth  dreaming, 
far  into  the  night.  Mrs  Keown  had  piled  up  a  royal  fire 
of  turf  before  departing,  and  he  had  too  many  wonderful 
and  lovely  things  to  think  of,  to  wish  for  sleep.  He  had 
really  come  back  to  his  own ;  and  this  time  the  return  was 
all  sweetness. 

There  had  been  no  need  for  explanations  between  him 
and  Moira.  The  oft-rehearsed  confession  need  never  be 
spoken  now.  He  would  tell  her  everything,  but  not  for 
forgiveness,  he  was  already  forgiven ;  not  for  exculpation 
himself,  she  understood  him  better  than  he  did  himself; 
but  for  the  sake  of  her  sympathy  and  that  there  might 
be  no  experience  of  his  unshared  by  her. 

It  was  a  curious  feeling,  to  be  here  again  in  the  poor 
old  room ;  poor  as  it  was,  it  was  a  palace  to  many  a  shelter 
he  had  known  these  four  years.  Not  by  contrast,  how- 
ever, but  in  itself,  the  place  was  a  delight  to  him.  Here 
he  felt  at  home,  as  never  in  the  grand  rooms  of  England. 


HOME-COMING 

How  much  rather  had  he  be  waited  on  by  Honor  than 
surrounded  with  the  humiliating  pomp  of  servants  who 
despised  him  in  their  flunkey  hearts. 

The  years  seemed  to  slip  off  him;  the  agonies,  the 
passions,  the  battle  thrills,  his  unbelievable  experiences 
lost  in  the  skies,  it  was  all  like  the  grotesque  fantasies  of 
a  dream. 

The  wash  of  the  placid  sea  and  the  boom  of  the  rising 
tide  in  the  caves  filled  the  silence  with  such  familiar  music 
that  he  could  scarcely  believe  his  ear  had  ever  lost  it.  The 
shadows  cast  by  the  candles  leaped  on  the  sallow  walls. 
Leprechaun  lay  snoring,  his  nose  between  his  paws,  on  the 
old  sealskin,  with  now  and  again  the  glint  of  a  brown  eye 
upon  his  master,  the  quiver  of  a  silken  ear  to  show  his 
watchfulness  even  in  slumber.  Yonder  stood  his  gun,  in 
the  corner  by  the  dresser,  and  across  the  window-seat  lay 
his  rods.  The  touch  of  Moira's  lips  was  fragrant  in  his 
memory;  well  might  he  think  this  span  of  years  was  all 
a  dream !  But  here  was  Leprechaun  gray  about  the 
muzzle ;  he  could  see  rust  on  the  fowling-piece  even  from 
where  he  sat,  and  the  verdigris  on  the  brass  of  the  rods ; 
his  outstretched  legs  were  clothed  in  long  brown  leather 
boots,  laced  to  the  knee ;  his  head  was  heavy  with  the  dull 
ache  that  scarcely  ever  left  it  since  his  crash.  He  had 
passed  through  great  fires :  fires  of  love,  fires  of  war, 
fires  of  sorrow.  He  would  never  be  the  same  again ;  never 
have  a  boy's  heart  or  a  boy's  eyes  for  the  things  of  earth. 
But  he  had  come  home;  what  did  anything  else  matter? 

If  ever  a  man  built  castles  in  the  air,  the  dweller  in 
the  ruins  of  Kilmore  did  that  night;  but,  unlike  most 
dream-builders,  he  had  solid  foundations  for  his  edifice — 
nothing  less  solid,  indeed,  than  those  of  the  old  cliff  castle 

325 


NEW  WINE 

itself,  welded  to  the  primeval  rock.  He  would  buy  back 
the  land,  and  rebuild  Kilmore.  .  .  .  Yes,  thej  were  to 
rise  again,  the  walls  and  the  towers — and  here  he  would 
live,  among  his  own,  with  Moira  by  his  side.  And  what 
a  blessed  life  it  would  be!  ...  His  first  friends,  his 
old  friends,  would  always  be  his  best  friends,  however 
pleasant  he  might  find  his  relations  with  the  fine  county 
folk;  however  necessary  intercourse  with  them  would  be. 
And  these  last  must  take  him  as  they  found  him  .  .  .  and 
Moira  too.  He  had  no  fear  for  Moira:  Honor  had 
spoken  the  right  word.  Who  would  think  of  such  pettiness 
as  class  distinction  when  they  looked  on  her  sweet  face? 
If  any  there  were,  so  poor-minded,  well,  Kilmore  would 
hare  none  of  them.  Four  years  of  warfare  had  taught 
Shane,  the  peasant  reared,  the  lesson  it  had  taught  many 
an  aristocrat :  when  you  come  down  to  the  root  of  things 
it  is  the  man  that  counts.  He  himself  had  counted  for 
what  he  was — for  being  Shane  and  no  other:  he  meant 
to  count  still  in  the  world ;  to  count  as  Kilmore,  in  his  own 
land. 

At  length,  in  the  bed  on  which  his  mother  had  died, 
he  fell  asleep  profoundly,  and  at  first  without  dreams. 
As  morning  drew  on,  however,  his  rest  became  troubled; 
he  had  two  visions,  both  startlingly  vivid,  passing  one 
into  the  other.  The  first  was  of  Saltash.  He  had  thought 
verj  little  on  his  dead  friend  that  day;  the  immediate 
present  and  his  boyhood's  past  had  too  completely  filled 
his  mind;  but  now  he  was  back  in  the  tent  with  his  com- 
rade, and  Saltash  seemed  to  be  trying  to  say  something 
to  him,  something  of  urgent  importance,  calling  his  name 
in.  well-remembered  accents,  the  soft,  rather  drawling  in- 
tonation. "Paddy,  old  man,  I've  got  to  tell  you — 

326 


HOME-COMING 

Shane  was  ar/are  that  he  must  listen,  though  for  some 
dream  reason  it  was  very  difficult  to  do  so.  But  eren  as  he 
was  taking  his  friend's  hand  to  draw  him  closer,  "Stars" 
sank  from  him  and  lay  with  eyes  closed,  with  dead,  smil- 
ing lips.  And  Shane  knew,  in  a  rending  of  old  grief,  that 
those  lips  could  never  utter  speech  again.  He  struggled 
away  from  the  sense  of  pain,  found  himself  fighting 
through  mists  that  smothered  him,  and  then,  all  at  once, 
he  was  walking  along  the  moonlit  Irish  road,  dreadfully 
tired,  yet  obliged  to  go  on  and  on.  Some  one  came  towards 
him ;  it  was  a  woman's  figure,  drawing  nearer,  eyer  nearer, 
very  slowly,  clad  in  black.  Here  the  sleeper  entered  upon 
full  nightmare.  He  could  not  fly  or  avoid  this  woman  in 
black;  his  heart  turned  to  water,  dread  overcame  him 
wholly.  He  saw  that  she  was  robed  as  a  widow,  that  her 
face  was  hidden  in  a  long  crepe  veil.  He  tried  to  tell 
himself  that  it  was  Moira,  mourning  for  Father  Blake — 
since  Father  Blake  was  dead.  But  she  lifted  her  reil,  and 
it  was  the  face  of  Venetia. 

He  woke  in  a  cold  sweat,  and,  rolling  round  on  his  pil- 
low, saw  the  faint  yellow  of  sunrise  paint  his  small  window- 
pane,  and  heard  the  great  murmur  of  the  sea. 


THE  WATCHER  BY  THE  HEARTH 

CLENANE  agreed — glory  be  to  God — that  it  had  been 
the  grandest  funeral  ever  was  known  in  the  place:  what 
with  so  many  of  the  gentry  coming  themselves  or  sending 
their  carriages,  Protestant  and  Catholic  alike,  and  the 
churchyard  black  with  priests,  while  it  was  out  on  the 
road  that  the  rest  of  them  were,  for  them  as  had  not  had 
even  a  little  ass-car  to  drive  in  had  walked  it.  From  miles 
around  they  had  come,  mountainy  men  and  town-folk  and 
all.  For  there  had  not  been  one  like  him  and  everybody 
knew  it  was  the  burying  of  a  saint! 

But  the  chief  jewel  in  all  this  crown  of  melancholy  pride 
had  been  the  presence  of  their  own  Master  Shane,  and 
him  Earl  of  Kilmore.  Had  not  he  come  flying  all  the 
way  from  France  beyant,  when  Moira  Blake,  the  creature, 
had  sent  him  a  telegram  telling  him  of  his  reverence's 
quinching?  Flown  over  all  in  the  one  night,  he  had:  and, 
signs  on  it,  had  not  Patsey  Dooley  seen  the  great  machine 
in  the  field  behind  the  castle,  and  was  not  Blake's  mare 
near  slipping  her  foal  with  the  fright  she  got?  But  sure, 
what  would  it  have  mattered  if  she  had,  itself — Danny 
Blake  the  proud  ould  fellow  this  day  with  Master  Shane 
coming  back  to  fetch  the  good  little  girl  off  him,  at  long 
last! 

Shane  unconsciously  planted  a  dagger  in  Clenane's 
swelling  heart  by  vanishing  immediately  after  the  cere- 

328 


THE  WATCHER  BY  THE  HEARTH 

mony;  he  who  had  been  expected  to  be  the  ornament  of 
the  funeral  feast!  Indeed,  more  than  Clenane  had  been 
disappointed.  Doctor  Molloy,  late  at  the  funeral, 
through  an  inconveniently  chosen  birth-hour,  was,  in  his 
own  words,  "wild"  to  have  missed  one  towards  whom,  with 
the  recoil  of  a  generous  heart,  he  felt  all  the  more  tender- 
ness for  old  angers.  Such  of  the  gentry  as  were  present 
also  felt  aggrieved,  not  realizing  till  too  late  that  the 
dark,  tall  young  man  in  khaki,  who  kept  himself  in  the 
background,  was  the  Lord  Kilmore  of  the  romantic  story, 
the  wild  O'Conor  boy,  he  of  the  ruins,  who  used  to  ride 
the  half  broken  horses  to  the  admiration  of  the  hunt. 

Moira  had  only  had  a  snatched  word  with  her  lover 
at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  She  would  have  to  run 
home  the  minute  the  last  blessing  was  given,  she  told  him, 
to  set  her  mother  free.  Mrs.  Blake  had  not  been  able  to 
leave  the  Da;  it  was  the  terrible  night  of  coughing  the 
Da  had  had — but  poor  Mammy  couldn't  be  out  of  it  al- 
together, and  her  own  niece  by  marriage  to  him  that's 
gone! 

"The  Da  will  be  looking  for  you  about  four  in  the 
afternoon,"  she  had  added,  a  lovely  shy  blush  mounting 
in  her  tear-stained  face.  "He  bid  me  tell  you  that." 

"Meet  me  first  in  the  old  place,"  cried  Shane,  wring- 
ing her  hand. 

It  was  to  the  old  place  that  he  went  himself,  on  his 
escape  from  the  crowd  that  pressed  and  jostled  and 
groaned  and  clapped  its  hands,  and  rocked  itself  all 
through  the  solemn  drone  of  the  church  prayers ;  now  and 
then  interrupting  these  expressions  of  pious  sorrow  with 
demonstrations  of  inconveniently  affectionate  and  excited 
recognition  of  himself. 

329 


NEW  WINJET 

He  had  a  craving  for  solitude,  as  much  physical  as 
mental.  The  fatigues  of  his  long  journey,  his  evil  dreams 
had  left  him  shaken.  His  nerves  had  been  painfully 
affected  by  the  turmoil  and  confusion  of  so  great  a  con- 
course; the  old  headache  was  there  in  fresh  force,  and  he 
felt  giddy  besides.  But  there  was  more  than  physical 
trouble  over  him  to-day:  a  weight  lay  upon  his  heart. 
The  sky,  pure  blue  as  it  was,  this  crystal  morning  of  sun- 
shine and  wine-bright  airs,  seemed  to  him  dark  with 
menace.  Yesterday  he  had  not  been  able  to  think  of  death 
at  all,  with  such  promise  of  life  before  him.  But  to-day, 
it  seemed  as  if  death  was  everywhere;  dank  in  every 
breath  he  drew,  threatening  in  each  beat  of  his  pulse ;  the 
haunting  of  it  in  every  thought  and  every  hope. 

He  sat  awhile  in  their  old  stone  shelter  in  the  cliff,  and 
tried  to  recapture  the  spring  adorers  of  that  April  hour 
when  he  had  first  wooed  his  shy  April  Moira ;  strove  to 
bring  back  the  nearer,  more  sacred  comfort  of  her  last 
night's  kiss  and  murmured  blessing.  All  in  vain.  He 
felt  chilled  to  the  bone.  The  western  sea,  wonderfully, 
darkly  blue  at  the  noon  hour,  looked  to  him  sinister  as  a 
pall.  The  ceaseless  cries  of  the  gulls  were  to  his  ears 
like  the  voices  of  sick  ghost  children  complaining  in  the 
air. 

He  felt  very  solitary;  Leprechaun  had  wandered  away 
from  him  at  the  churchyard  towards  the  priest's  house 
in  a  desultory  way,  with  a  probable  remembrance  of  old 
Mary's  bounties  and  a  distinct  conviction  that  funerals 
were  profitless  spectacles.  Shane  would  hare  been  glad 
of  the  company  of  his  dumb  friend. 

"I'll  go  back  to  the  ruins,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and 
build  the  turf  up  the  chimney,  and  try  and  get  warm." 

330 


A  fine  drift  of  cloud  was  rising  over  the  sky  with  a 
soughing  wind  as  he  came  out  by  the  rocky  climb  on  to 
his  platform.  The  ivy  over  the  broken  arch  shivered 
against  the  stone ;  a  few  yellow  leaves  from  the  self-sown 
alder  bushes,  danced  and  eddied  across  the  bailey  yard. 

"There'll  be  rain  before  morning,"  he  thought.  It  was 
only  October,  but  on  this  height,  beaten  by  the  sea  winds, 
there  was  already  a  chill  prescience  of  winter.  His  door 
was  ajar:  as  he  stepped  in,  a  fragrance  familiar  and  once 
too  sweet  to  him,  turned  him  sick. 

It  was  there,  by  his  hearth,  the  black  figure — the  figure 
of  his  dream!  Before  she  turned  and  raised  the  widow's 
veil,  he  knew  who  it  was  who  sat,  like  inexorable  fate, 
watching  beside  his  dying  fire — waiting  for  him.  Venetia. 

"What  brings  you?" 

She  rose  and  came  towards  him,  a  floating  creature 
of  black  mystery,  white-faced  under  her  weeds. 

"Can  you  look  at  me,  and  ask  the  question?" 

"I  see  that  you  are  dressed  as  a  widow,"  said  Shane, 
brutally,  out  of  the  agony  of  his  parched  throat. 

"My  husband  is  dead." 

"Which?" 
* 

She  gave  him  a  strange  look  and  on  her  lips  flickered 
the  faint,  ironic  smile  that  he  knew  so  well,  horrible  to 
him. 

"What  a  question  from  you,  Shane !" 

He  was  certain  then  that  the  doom  which  his  obsessed 
spirit  had  been  shrinking  from  since  his  waking,  had  come 
upon  him  and  was  not  to  be  avoided.  It  was  the  end  of 
joy  and  love.  Venetia  claimed  him. 

He  clutched  at  the  edge  of  the  table ;  everything  swam 
before  him. 

331 


NEW  WINE 

"I  thought,"  he  said  dully,  "that  he  was  dead  already — 
that  one,  since  you  were — since  you  told  me  you  had  made 
your  peace  with  the  Church." 

"You  thought  that "     Something  flashed  furiously 

out  of  her  eyes  at  him ;  and  then  was  hooded  again,  as  if 
a  viper  peeped.  "You  could  think  that  then  and  speak 
no  word,  leave  me  as  you  did?  Ah,  no,"  the  old  music 
swelled  back  into  her  voice.  "I  will  not  believe  it.  You 
were  ill;  you  were  unable  to  reason,  to  think,  to  judge. 
If  it  had  not  been  so,  you  would  have  known  that  the  mo- 
ment freedom  was  ours,  real  freedom,  nothing  could  keep 
us  apart.  I  came  to  you,  as  you — as  you,  oh,  as  you, 
my  Shane!  would  have  come  to  me.  Are  we  not  pledged?" 

With  a  slow,  wonderful  gesture   she  lifted  her  arms, 
weighted  with  draperies ;  but  he  forbade  the  embrace  with 
quickly  outflung  hands. 
>  "No — don't  touch  me !" 

There  was  a  pause.  He  heard  his  own  breath  come 
panting  like  the  strokes  of  a  saw,  and  in  a  passionate 
spasm  of  misery  wished  himself  lying  in  that  coffin  upon 
which  he  had  heard  the  earth  thud  only  an  hour  ago. 
Then  he  mastered  himself. 

"I've  got  to  understand,  and  you've  got  to  understand. 
Your  real  husband's  dead,  the  man — the  man  you  married 
as  a  Catholic,  whom  you  left  for  the  other."  Perfectly 
collected  she  bowed  her  head.  "And  you  think,"  he  went 
on,  "I  ought  to  marry  you  because  you're  free.  What 
ails  you  that  you  shouldn't  be  properly  married  to  Sir 
Timothy?" 

"Why  should  Sir  Timothy  re-marry  me  when  he  believes 
we  are  already  married?"  Again  her  fugitive  smile  struck 
fear  into  him.  "Besides  which,  Timothy  and  I  have  been 

332 


THE  WATCHER  BY  THE  HEARTH 

virtually    parted    ever    since "    she    paused    to    give 

weight  to  the  unspoken,  then  she  went  on — "ever  since  the 
war,  too,  we  have  not  been  even  in  the  same  house.  This  is 
why  I  was  able  to  be  reconciled.  He  keeps  asking  me  to 

go  back  to  him.     I  have  refused "     Once  more  she 

broke  off;  then  her  smile  became  accentuated — Shane 
thought  the  exquisite  face  altogether  hideous  and  cruel — 
"Refused  to  come  back  to  the  house  of  sin." 

He  spoke  no  word.     She  asked,  with  delicate  emphasis: 

"Must  I  make  myself  clearer?    Have  you  understood?" 

"Oh,  I've  understood,  right  enough."    The  reality  was 

worse  than  the  dream;  the  cold  sweat  that  stood  on  his 

forehead  was  wrung  from  an  anguish  that  no  sleep  could 

hold.     "You  want  me  to  be  marrying  you.     I  don't  want 

to  marry  you.     I  love  somebody  else.     It's  her  I  mean  to 

marry.     Will  you  be  understanding  that?" 

"I  understand  one  thing  better:  that  you  are  bound 
to  me." 

"Would  you  have  the  unwilling  husband?" 
"Would  you  be  false  to  your  plighted  word?     Would 
you  brand  yourself  no  gentleman?" 

"You  found  out  long  ago  that  I  was  only  the  Irish 
peasant." 

"Have  Irishmen  no  honor,  then?  Ah,  Shane — what  is 
this  talk  of  promise  and  pledge  and  honor?  It  is  not  a 
question  of  such  things,  it  is  a  question  of  a  soul.  Will 
you  save  my  soul?  You  can,  you  only.  Before  God,  if 
you  will  not  save  my  soul,  I'll  jump  off  that  cliff  there; 
my  battered  body  shall  be  flung  up  upon  your  beach.  Or 
I'll  go  back  to  Timothy.  Whichever  way  it  is,  it  will  be 
hell  sooner  or  later,  it  will  mean  the  loss  of  my  soul." 
Shane  stood  staring  past  her  through  the  open  door, 

333 


NEW  WINE 

at  the  great  sweep  of  sky,  cut  by  a  single  jagged  rock; 
he  saw  the  face  of  his  dead  friend  smiling.  Oh,  why  did 
Stars  smile?  He  felt  again  the  clasp  of  that  inert,  dead 
hand  still  faintly  warm;  heard  in  his  soul  the  words  he 
had  himself  spoken:  "I  will  go  for  the  right."  Was  this 
the  right?  No,  it  was  all  evil;  it  was  punishment,  Stars 
had  said  the  consequences  of  sin  went  on.  Here  was  his 
sin — the  sin  of  his  broken  word,  of  his  cruelty  to  his  true 
Moira — back  upon  him!  Stars  knew:  he  had  warned  him. 
That  was  what  he  was  trying  to  tell  him  last  night. 

Then  he  became  aware  that  she  was  speaking;  with 
tears,  with  long,  piteous  sobs : — 

"If  you  cast  me  away  there  is  nothing  left  for  me. 
Timothy  knows  I  must  go  back  to  him  or  be  lost  utterly 
in  this  world.  If  I  go  back  to  him  I  am  lost  in  the  next. 
Did  you  think  that  such  a  thing  as  your  taking  me  away 
could  have  been  hidden ;  that  people  did  not  know  and 
talk?  If  you  are  false  to  me  now,  then  there  is  no  truth 
anywhere.  How  could  I  believe  in  God,  if  you,  who  talked 
of  God  so  much,  fail?  You  say  you  love  some  one  else. 
I  will  find  her,  I  will  tell  her  what  it  will  mean  to  me  if 
you  do  this  treachery.  And  if  she  has  a  conscience,  if 
she  has  a  woman's  heart,  she  will  see,  she  will  pity,  she  will 
understand " 

Here  Shane  knew  the  struggle  was  done  with.  The 
waters  had  closed  over  his  head.  The  one  thing  that  was 
impossible,  the  one  thing  that  he  could  never  submit  to, 
was  that  the  woman  should  come  into  Moira's  innocent 
presence ;  should  pollute  those  pure  ears  with  her  horrible 
story.  The  sense  of  the  inevitable  filled  him  with  a  kind 
of  deadly  calm.  He  had  felt  just  like  this  when  the  plane 

334 


THE  WATCHER  BY  THE  HEARTH 

began  to  spin  downwards,  and  he  knew  that  he  was  help- 
less, and  must  yield  himself  to  destiny. 

How  strange  that  it  should  come  back  to  him  now ! 

O 

He  had  not  before  been  able  to  remember. 

"The  first  thing,"  he  said,  "is  for  you  to  get  away  out 
of  this.  I'll  take  you  myself.  I'll  take  you  straight  back 
to  England — and  after  that  I'll  marry  you  before  I  join 
up  again." 

She  laughed  shrilly. 

"When  Timothy  divorces  me,  you  mean?" 

His  blue  eye  took  fire.  "Is  that  the  way  of  it?"  he 
thought,  "I've  got  a  chance  yet,  then." 

"Shane!"  She  laid  her  hand  upon  him,  urging  him. 
"Yes,  let  us  get  away.  I  motored  from  Dublin.  The  car 
is  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the  hill — a  child  showed  me  the 
way.  Let  us  go  now.  They  are  all  at  a  funeral  or  some- 
thing. There  is  no  one  about — no  one  to  stop  you." 

"You  will  allow  me  a  moment  to  write  a  letter,"  he  said, 
with  irony. 

He  pitched  himself  upon  the  table,  took  his  writing  pad 
from  his  pocket,  and  wrote: — 

"I  have  got  to  go  away  from  you,  Moira,  my  heart's 
darling.  I  have  got  to  go,  and  I  can  never  come  back. 
There  is  only  one  thing  I  can  tell  you,  and  that  you  know 
already.  It's  not  of  my  own  free  will  I  leave  you.  And 
there  is  only  one  thing  I  am  asking  you :  When  you  pray 
for  me,  pray  that  I  may  be  killed  soon. — Your  SHANE." 

He  addressed  the  letter  to  "Miss  Moira  Blake,"  and 
drawing  the  signet  ring  from  his  finger,  set  it  on  the  folded 
sheet:  no  one  could  miss  it,  coming  into  the  room,  as  it 
lay  white  on  the  brown  wood  of  the  table,  the  letter  that 
contained  the  death-sentence  of  their  love. 

335 


NEW  WINE 

"Now  I  am  ready,"  he  said,  turning  to  Venetia. 

"The  car  is  just  outside  the  field,"  she  said. 

Mechanically  he  took  up  his  overcoat,  and  without  a 
backward  look,  followed  her  through  the  door.  The 
thought  uppermost  in  his  mind  was  that  he  was  glad 
Leprechaun  had  strayed  away. 


VI 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS 

IT  was  the  tenth  of  October  and  a  gusty  morning.  The 
crowd  pouring  out  of  the  train  on  to  the  platform  of 
Kingstown  harbor  was  surrounded  with  all  the  clamor 
which  characterizes  Ireland;  the  steamer  below — puffing 
smoke,  and  now  and  again  letting  off  hoarse  cries  from 
a  Leviathan  throat,  to  be  understood  only  of  the  initiate, 
wearing  the  odious,  smug  expression  of  all  passenger  boats 
— seemed  ludicrously  inadequate  to  the  demands  on  her 
accommodation.  Stewards  and  sailors  came  and  went, 
brisk  and  businesslike ;  but  most  of  the  intending  travelers 
had  to  shoulder  their  own  luggage,  while  round  the  lug- 
gage-vans the  porters  screamed,  gesticulated,  and  wrest- 
led, exchanging  witticisms  with  each  other,  commenting 
freely  on  the  individual  prowess  and  appearance  of  sun- 
dry strugglers  in  the  baffled  throng,  the  present  situation 
in  particular  and  the  state  of  the  world  in  general ;  thor- 
oughly enjoying  the  scrimmage,  like  true  sons  of  Erin. 

The  handsome,  frowning  young  officer  in  airman's  uni- 
form who  dived  in  and  out  among  them,  with  such  ruthless 
thrusts  of  shoulders  and  elbows ;  who  penetrated  to  the 
depths  of  the  van,  and  extracted  a  lady's  suit-case,  was 
greeted  by  an  encouraging  shout :  "More  power  to  ye, 
Captain!  It's  the  grand  porter  you'd  make!  Musha! 
let  the  gentleman  out  of  that,  boys !" 

337 


NEW  WINE 

Shane,  the  suit-case  poised  on  his  shoulder,  swept  his 
own  way  through  the  mass,  with  an  utter  disregard  of 
anything  but  his  purpose.  A  couple  of  rough  men  cursed 
his  uniform,  and  the  airman  cursed  back  with  a  searing 
energy  and  a  blaze  of  blue  eyes  that  obliterated  them. 

Scenting  profit,  a  sailor  already  considerably  weighted, 
relieved  him  of  the  burden. 

"Keep  your  eye  on  me,  sir,  I'll  see  that  you  get  on 
board." 

"I've  a  lady  with  me,"  began  Shane,  with  a,  vague  stare 
about  him.  Even  as  he  spoke  a  slender  figure,  heavily 
veiled,  in  deep  mourning,  was  borne  against  him  on  a  rush 
like  seaweed  on  a  wave.  She  caught  at  him  desperately 
and  steadied  herself. 

He  was  not  vague  now:  his  glance  settled  on  her  with 
loathing. 

"I  told  you  to  stay  in  the  carriage  until  I  came  to  you." 
His  tone  was  hard,  sharp  as  the  cut  of  a  whip. 

"I  am  so  afraid  we  shall  miss  the  boat,  there  is  such  a 
dreadful  crowd!"  she  cried  plaintively. 

Both  had  to  raise  their  voices  high  to  be  heard  above 
the  clamor  and  a  sudden  hiss  of  steam. 

Except  for  such  necessary  speech  as  this,  no  words  had 
passed  between  them  that  morning.  Indeed,  ever  since 
Shane  had  entered  her  motor-car,  the  day  before — much 
as  the  condemned  man  may  step  into  the  tumbril — he  had 
scarcely  spoken  at  all.  When  she  had  told  him,  that 
owing  to  a  recent  order,  no  boat  was  allowed  to  leave  at 
night,  and  they  must  go  back  to  the  hotel,  he  answered : — 

"I'll  take  you  wherever  you  wish." 

"But  you  must  come  too."  She  smiled  that  awful  smile 
of  hers.  "It  will  make  tilings  much  easier  afterwards." 

338 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS 

It  was  then,  and  only  then,  that  his  wrath  broke 
forth  :— 

"I  tell  you  fair — there  are  things  you'll  never  get  me 
to  do,  and  that's  one  of  them !  I'll  not  go  under  the  same 
roof  with  you,  not  till  I  can  with  decency.  Make  what  you 
will  out  of  that.  As  for  the  rest,  you  may  do  with  me 
what  you  like.  I'm  at  your  orders  altogether." 

She  reared  herself  beside  him  with  a  movement  full  of 
anger;  but  after  a  glance  at  his  fierce  face,  seemed  to 
bethink  herself. 

"After  all,"  she  said  musingly,  in  accents  low  and 
measured  as  ever,  "one  can  always  arrange  things.  I 
have  been  under  your  roof;  we  are  traveling  together, 
that  and  The  rest  should  be  sufficient.'* 

He  had  spent  the  night  in  the  first  pothouse  open  to 
him,  a  night  of  absolute  wakefulness,  staring  upon  his 
fate.  There  was  no  power  for  action  left  in  his  mind; 
not  even  for  a  revolving  of  the  situation,  or  for  the  vaguest 
plan  to  escape  beyond  that  single  hope  of  death.  A  para- 
lyzing sense  of  doom  had  been  upon  him;  he  was  as  one 
frozen. 

As  he  stood  beside  her  now  on  the  platform,  mechani- 
cally striving  to  shelter  her  from  the  jostling  of  the  crowd, 
he  was  conscious  only  of  an  inarticulate,  unreasoning  de- 
sire that  the  vessel  yonder,  her  two  great  funnels  rocking 
sickeningly  below  them,  her  decks  already  swarming, 
might  never  reach  the  other  shore. 

A  peasant  woman,  evidently  from  some  remote  part  of 
Ireland,  for  her  tall  figure  was  wrapped  in  the  many 
folded  cloaks  of  the  very  simple,  its  pleated  hood 
pulled  deep  over  her  face,  had  been  standing  still  while 
the  stream  passed  her,  watching  the  approach  of  the  air- 

339 


NEW  WINE 

man  and  his  companion.  Now  she  dived  forward  and 
grasped  him  by  the  arm.  At  the  same  moment  a  voice 
rang  out. 

"Follow   me,  sir,   with  the  lady,  quick." 

The  sailor,  seeing  and  taking  his  opportunity,  plunged 
forward,  Venetia  in  his  wake.  But  Shane  turned,  arrested, 
and  the  crowd  seethed  between  them. 

"What  is  it?"  he  cried. 

The  cloaked  woman  put  out  her  other  hand  to  tighten 
her  hold  upon  him,  then  with  a  magnificent  movement  of 
her  head,  she  flung  back  her  hood.  He  saw  Moira,  white 
as  death,  with  hair  disheveled;  met  her  deep  gaze,  and 
thought  he  was  mad. 

"Move  on,  move  on !"  ordered  an  official.  "Are  you  for 
the  boat,  sir?" 

There  was  respect  in  his  tone  for  the  uniform,  and  in 
his  glance  curiosity  for  the  strange  spectacle  of  the 
gentleman  and  the  peasant  girl,  both  so  beautiful  and  so 
tragic,  clinging  in  what  seemed  an  eternal  farewell.  But 
it  was  not  farewell. 

"He's  not  going."  Moira's  voice  proclaimed  a  su- 
preme certainty,  the  color  began  to  flow  back  into  her 
countenance.  "You're  not  going,  Shane.  Shane,  my 
darling,  you  are  to  come  back  with  me.  You  are  not  to 
be  taken  from  me  again,  Shane !" 

"He's  too  late  for  the  boat  now,  my  dear,"  said  the 
guard,  with  exuberant  sympathy.  "They're  turning  them 
back  as  it  is." 

Shane,  his  eyes  fixed  on  Moira,  as  if  he  could  not  suffi- 
ciently fill  his  soul  with  the  vision,  said  slowly,  drawing 
a  long  breath,  like  a  man  returning  to  consciousness : — 

"Yes,  Moira — I'm  coming  back  with  you."  Then  quite 

340 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS 

unaware  that  he  was  using  well  nigh  the  same  words  as 
those  in  which  he  had  surrendered  last  night  to  her  who 
was  his  tormentor,  he  went  on,  his  voice  breaking :  "You 
can  do  with  me  what  you  like." 

The  sailors  were  giving  their  heaving  cry,  the  gangway 
grated  as  it  was  withdrawn.  An  immense  hoot  issued, 
blasting,  from  the  funnel.  Then,  with  rush  and  swirl  of 
waters,  throb  of  screws  and  hiss  of  steam,  the  Leinster 
swung  about  in  the  harbor,  and  beat  her  way  out  to  sea. 

The  passengers  were  so  thickly  crowded  on  board  that 
there  was  scarcely  standing  room.  Conspicuous  among 
them  because  of  her  slender  height  and  the  depth  of  her 
widow's  weeds,  was  one  who  had  thrust  back  a  long  crape 
veil  to  look  this  way  and  that  out  of  a  stricken  face; 
seeking,  seeking  amid  the  throng,  with  an  anguish  of  fury 
and  fear  in  her  eyes. 

The  wind  was  getting  up. 

"It's  the  rough  passage  they'll  be  having  anyways," 
said  a  porter  consolingly  to  a  disappointed  traveler. 

Moira  drew  Shane  as  quickly  as  possible  back  into  the 
third-class  carriage  from  which  she  had  emerged.  She 
paid  for  his  ticket  out  of  her  shabby  purse.  He  let  her 
manage,  like  a  child,  with  his  eyes  always  upon  her.  It 
was  not  until  they  sat  together  in  the  refreshment  room  at 
Kingsbridge  station  and  she  had  seen  him  swallow  some 
hot  coffee,  that  a  wondering  look,  a  questioning  return  of 
vitality  in  his  glance,  brought  speech  from  her.  She  took 
his  hand  across  the  table  into  her  full,  strong  clasp. 

"How  did  I  find  you,  how  did  I  know — is  that  what 
you'd  like  to  be  asking  me?  I  couldn't  tell  you  myself, 
barring  that  it  is  by  the  mercy  of  God  and  the  prayers 
of  him  that  is  gone.  When  you  failed  to  come  to  the 

341 


NEW  WINE 

cliff,  and  I  was  tired  waiting,  I  went  on  to  the  ruins, 
and  I  found  jour  letter!  I'll  never  be  able  to  say  the 
pain  that  took  me  in  the  heart.  I  didn't  know  what  I 
was  doing.  I  didn't  know  who  to  turn  to.  I  went  to  the 
grave.  Och,  and  I  prayed — and  now  that  I  come  to 
think  of  it,  it  wasn't  a  prayer  at  all — it  was  just  crying 
on  Father  Blake  I  was.  'You're  the  only  one  that 
would  have  helped  me,  and  you're  gone,'  that's  how  I 
kept  calling  to  him.  'Help  me  now,  help  Shane,  help 
my  poor  boy  and  me  with  my  broken  heart !'  r 

Their  clasp  tightened  as  they  held  each  other. 
Shane's  lip  trembled,  he  set  his  teeth  against  a  rising  sob. 
He  was  altogether  worn  out. 

"Och,  and  you'll  never  believe  me,  maybe,  but  it's  the 
truth,"  she  went  on.  "He  answered  me.  A  voice  came 
to  me  from  liimself,  his  own  voice  out  of  the  grave.  I 
heard  him  as  plain  as  ever  I  heard  him  in  life.  And  he 
says,  'Go.  after  him,  child.  You  can  save  him  yet.  Go 
after  him.'  That's  what  he  said  to  me.  I  got  up  from 
my  knees  with  the  strength  pouring  into  me.  I  will  go 
after  him,  I  says  to  myself,  and  won't  he  show  me  the  way, 
mj  dear  old  Soggarth!  For  where  in  the  world  you'd 
gone  to,  how  was  I  to  be  knowing  that?  And  then,  if 
Patsey  Dooley  didn't  come  running  to  me  with  the  tale 
how  he's  seen  a  black  lady  come  in  a  grand  motor-car, 
and  how  she'd  gone  up  into  your  own  little  place.  It  was 
looking  for  your  flying  machine  he  was,  the  spalpeen,  when 
all  the  rest  of  us  was  at  the  funeral,  with  the  wild  talk 
there  was  among  them  of  your  having  left  it  in  the  Da's 
fields.  And  sure,  when  he  saw  the  lady  he  hid  himself 
to  watch  and  see  what  she'd  be  about.  And  then  he  tells 
me  how  the  two  of  you  walked  away  into  the  car  to- 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS 

gether.     And  it's  Shelbourne  Hotel,  Dublin,  she  cried  to 
the  man  that  was  sitting  on  the  box." 

Shane's  fingers  twitched  in  Moira's  grasp;  the  frown 
of  distress  gathered  again  on  his  face. 

"Moira — it  was  my  own  bad  deeds  came  back  on  me 
with  her  that  was  the  black  one,  in  truth,  to  me.  I  prom- 
ised to  marrj  her  once,  God  help  me,  in  a  whirl  of  fool- 
ishness, before  I  knew  what  she  was — I  thought  it  was 
over  and  done  with  long  ago.  And  when  I  saw  the  black 
figure  of  her  sitting  by  the  hearth  where  I  had  been  so 
happy  thinking  on  you,  the  night  before — I  dreamt  it, 
I  dreamt  it,"  he  went  on,  rather  wildly,  "and  the  dread 
was  on  me  from  the  moment  I  woke — and  when  I  saw  her 
— oh,  Alanna,  how  shall  I  tell  you  at  all? — it  was  your- 
self she  threatened  to  go  and  see,  it  was  the  loss  of  her 
soul  she  wanted  to  put  on  me." 

"Och,  there's  nothing  that  sort  wouldn't  do  or  say," 
said  Moira.  "Sure,  what  would  it  matter  at  all  what 
they'd  be  at?  What  would  I  have  cared  if  twenty  of 
them  had  been  after  us  both  ?  I  wish  she  had  come  to  me. 
I'd  have  known  how  to  answer  her  fine."  Her  lip  curved 
with  a  soft  scorn;  her  eyes  pitied  and  comforted  like  a 
mother's.  "Sure,  me  darling,  no  man  would  be  a  match 
for  her,  least  of  all  yourself.  Putting  her  soul  on  you, 
was  she,  the  creature?  Well,  now,  to  think  of  that! — 
no,  but  it's  losing  yours  she'd  have  been  after !" 

Where,  in  her  sheltered  innocent  life,  had  she  learnt 
such  wisdom  and  such  philosophy? 

He  could  only  stare;  the  frozen  misery  was  being 
driven  out  of  his  veins  by  the  warmth  of  her  vitality, 
the  fixed  perverted  thought  from  his  brain  by  her  sweet, 
straightforward  sanity. 

343 


NEW  WINE 

"And  then  you  came  after  me,  Moira,  my  brave  girl!" 

"And  then  I  came  after  you,  me  poor  boy.  Sure,  that 
was  no  hardship  at  all.  I  left  a  message  for  Mammie. 
Oh,  it  was  very  cute  I  was !  I  borrowed  two  pounds  off 
Honor,  took  across  the  fields  and  got  out  on  to  the  road, 
and  wasn't  it  the  luck  of  the  world  that  I  got  the  lift  on 
a  car,  with  Clancy — and  him  near  sober — driving  a  lady 
back  to  the  station,  her  having  come  for  the  burying,  and 
I  caught  the  tram  beautiful.  Och,  it  was  helped  and 
protected  all  the  way  I  was !  I  slept  the  night  at  the 
sisters'  in  Mount  joy  Square.  Sure  didn't  the  Reverend 
Mother  know  me  out  of  Kilcurris?  And  it  wasn't  much 
after  daybreak  before  I  was  watching  for  you  outside 
the  grand  big  hotel;  and  I  seen  you  come  walking  along, 
the  clock  striking  seven.  .  .  .  You  didn't  see  me,  me 
darling,  you  hadn't  a  notion  but  it  might  not  have  been 
some  ould  woman,  wrapped  up  in  her  big  cloak.  But  I 
knew  you  from  the  end  of  the  street  by  the  swing  of  your 
shoulders,  and  your  head  up — troth  and  I  think  there 
isn't  anything  you  would  not  meet  with  your  head  up, 
Shane!  But  when  I  saw  your  face  in  the  yellow  light, 
och,  then  I  knew  for  certain  it  was  the  will  of  God  I 
should  come  after  you  and  take  you  out  of  it.'* 

"It  is  the  will  of  God,"  said  Shane. 

With  those  very  words  Moira  had  sealed  the  happy 
moment  of  reunion  in  the  moonlit  churchyard.  Now,  as 
Shane  spoke  them,  they  were  his  life's  consecration. 

A  great  peace  was  on  them  both;  a  sense  of  rest  after 
immense  striving. 

He  was  still  content  to  let  Moira  manage  everything; 
he  had  not  even  a  thought  for  the  other  woman,  trapped 
out  there  on  the  seas,  cheated  of  her  evil  success  within 

344 


OUT  OF  THE  DEEPS. 

the  very  hour  of  attainment.  It  had  all  dropped  from 
him,  as  a  bad  dream  may  slip  away,  leaving  only  a  vague 
confusion,  an  intangible  horror. 

They  went  out  together  into  the  street.  There  would 
not  be  a  train  to  bring  them  home  for  another  couple 
of  hours.  They  walked  slowly  across  the  town,  skirting 
the  quays.  A  mighty  wind  was  blowing.;  it  came  in  fitful 
gusts  swirling  down  the  dirty  pavements,  ruffling  the 
leaden  waters  of  the  Liffey,  buffeting  them  as  it  scurried 
by ;  a  bleak  wind  with  an  angry  sky  overhead.  The  poor, 
worn  town  seemed  to  wilt  under  it. 

Shane  drew  her  closer  to  him.  The  menace  under 
which  he  had  awakened  the  morning  before  began  to 
grow  huge  about  him  again.  The  degraded  houses,  the 
dingy  waterside,  took  a  strange  aspect  as  if  suddenly 
steeped  in  universal  black.  But  it  was  not  until  they 
entered  the  wide  spaces  in  front  of  Broadstone  station 
that  the  news  caught  them.  It  came  as  if  on  a  blast  of 
the  great,  furious  wind.  People  were  running,  hunted 
by  it;  poor  women  and  little  children,  rushing  out  of 
squalid  houses — the  unspeakable  wretched  poor  of  the 
incredible  unpardonable  Dublin  slums — barefoot,  clad  in 
rags  of  no  color,  with  wild  disheveled  heads ;  little  groups 
stood  talking  in  whispers  as  if  the  awful  tidings  could 
not  be  discussed  out  loud.  Others  were  groaning,  ges- 
ticulating. 

"What,  in  the  name  of  God,  is  the  truth  of  it  at  all?" 
shouted  a  voice  behind  Moira  to  the  driver  of  an  outside 
car  which  was  rocketing  by  from  the  station  at  the 
utmost  gallop  of  its  old  horse.  A  man  was  sitting  on 
one  side,  with  a  blasted  face. 

345 


NEW  WINE 

"It's  the  Leinster,"  the  jarvey  shouted  back.  "She's 
sunk,  she's  down,  she's  gone!" 

The  Leinster!  Shane  and  Moira  stopped  and  stared 
at  each  other. 

"Oh,  wirra,  wirra!"  moaned  a  woman,  as  she  went  by 
them  noiselessly  on  her  bare,  blackened  feet,  wringing  her 
hands  out  of  the  flutter  of  her  rags.  She  looked  the 
figure  of  misery  incarnate,  and  her  cry  trailed  back  to 
them  as  if  it  were  the  voice  of  disaster  itself. 

"They're  always  bringing  in  the  bodies.'* 

"It's  torpedoed  she  was." 

"Not  a  soul  saved  out  of  her!" 

The  sinister  phrases  circled  about  them,  echoing  each 
other  like  the  call  of  gulls  wheeling  and  swooping  over 
the  pitiless  sea. 

"Oh,  my  God!     Oh,  Shane!"  cried  Moira. 

He  stood  as  if  struck  to  stone.  She  flung  her  arms 
about  him  and  broke  into  passionate  weeping.  Raining 
tears  and  kisses  upon  his  cold  cheek,  she  rocked  him  in 
her  embrace.  He  clung  to  her  then,  like  a  child. 

The  hood  had  once  more  dropped  from  her  golden 
head;  the  bright  waves  of  her  hair  fell  loosened  like  a 
glory. 

"Och,  Uncle  Denny,  didn't  you  warn  me?" 

They  were  all  unconscious  of  eyes  upon  them;  of  any- 
thing save  the  tragedy  and  themselves. 

A  woman  plucked  Moira  by  the  sleeve. 

"You'll  have  lost  some  one,  you  poor  creature — God 
help  you!" 

"Oh,  no,"  cried  the  girl,  turning  her  face,  transfigured 
through  the  tears.  "It's  thanking  God  I  am  for  him 
I've  got  safe!" 

346  (1) 


;.••' 


A     000137830     6 


